<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Behind Grey Eyes by eilonwy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965023">Behind Grey Eyes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy'>eilonwy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Humor, Drama &amp; Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Hogwarts Professors, Magic, Parenthood, Post-Hogwarts, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Hermione Granger, Psychological Drama, Spells &amp; Enchantments, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:53:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts, one of its participants has returned to the school to get her life back on track, while another uses it as a place to hide from life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/"></a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p><i>No one knows what it’s like<br/>
To be the bad man,<br/>
To be the sad man…</i><br/>
--The Who<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Prologue</p></div></div><p> </p><p>31 December 2015</p><p> </p><p>Rain pelted down, splashing against the mullioned windows of the castle and running in rivulets down the pitted and fractured old panes.  On this dismal Saturday afternoon, the occupant of the small suite of rooms seemed to gaze, unseeing, at the blurred images of trees in the far distance, drenched and swaying in the wind.  Before him on the writing desk lay a sheaf of parchments, exams he was studiously ignoring even as he knew that he needed to finish marking them before the weekend was over.  One more pointless exam, this one on the properties of the elderflower and their efficacy in the creation of a variety of healing potions.  Knowledge that he was fairly certain his sixth years would already have forgotten, five minutes after handing in their exams.</p><p>Pushing the parchments away to the far corner of the desk, he sighed deeply and stood, irresolute for a moment.  Then, striding over to the coat rack by the door, he grabbed his cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat, and pulled them on, the brim down low over his grey eyes. His rooms were closing in on him. Suddenly, he couldn’t <i>breathe</i>.  His cloak flaring behind him like the wings of a raven taking to the air, he disappeared out the door, heading for the rain-soaked grounds outside.</p><p>Minerva McGonagall, headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for eighteen years and counting, watched as her potions master pulled open the heavy oaken door and vanished into the storm.  She shook her head slowly and with evident sadness in her eyes.  Those eyes missed nothing. They’d certainly seen their share of sorrow, confusion, pain, and loss over the many years she’d been at Hogwarts: the first war, the years of relative though deceptive calm, and then the second war, rending the wizarding world into almost unrecognizable shards of itself.  It had taken several years, post-war, to rebuild; even now, nearly eighteen years later, not everything had come together as she’d hoped it would. Nevertheless, life went on, taken up with a myriad of the usual distractions and petty concerns that consume everyone.  People looked whole on the outside; they functioned well enough, for the most part.  But not everyone was whole on the inside.  </p><p>Her potions master, gifted with natural abilities, was sleepwalking through his life at the school. She couldn't be sure why, though canny and observant as she was, Headmistress McGonagall had a fairly good idea.  Of one thing, she was certain, however.  Draco Malfoy was in need of something drastic to shake loose the smothering ennui that so obviously clung to him like a second skin.</p><p>Suddenly, a sly smile quirked a corner of the headmistress’s mouth.  She’d suddenly remembered something she’d been intending to do, regarding a situation of some urgency that had recently presented itself to her.  If this idea worked, it might well be a kind of salvation, perhaps for more than one in need.  </p><p>“Right, then,” she told herself briskly. “There is no time like the present.”  Turning, she hurried off in the direction of her office, the staccato clicks of her heels echoing on the ancient stone floor.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Part One</p>
</div><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hugo!  Will you <i>please</i> put Lunette down! You’re going to hurt her!”</p><p>A frazzled Hermione Granger, formerly Granger-Weasley, sank back in the overstuffed armchair, now a bit threadbare, and covered her eyes.  A wicked headache was beginning to blossom between her eyes and at the base of her neck – typical tension headache, something she’d been contending with more and more frequently as of late – and she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and pressing her fingertips to the spot to try and mitigate the throbbing.</p><p>“Rose!  Didn’t I ask you to mind your brother for just a few minutes? Can’t you manage that much?”</p><p>“Sorry, Mummy!” a high, clear voice sang out above the commotion being made by her seven-year-old brother, who was still trying to grab the family cat by the end of her long tail.  “I was just practising a Vanishing spell.”</p><p>A Vanishing spell.  Wonderful.  Right now, all Hermione needed was her precocious and persistent nine-year-old daughter becoming adept at spells even before she was old enough to learn them properly at school. Or worse, creating havoc in the disastrous aftermath of spells gone totally awry.</p><p>“Rosie,” she began wearily. “You know you’re not to try spells until you’re older.  I realise you have abilities that are difficult to ignore.  I was the same as a little girl.  But I also know that a very important part of spell work is knowing how to control the spells you cast, so that nobody gets hurt, including you.  One small mistake could have terrible consequences.  <i>Especially when you’re using someone else’s wand</i>, young lady,” she added, spotting her own wand in Rose's hand. “Promise me you won’t do this again. There will be time enough in two years, when you start at Hogwarts.  And then I’ll help you all I can.”  She fixed her daughter with a stern look.  “<i>Promise,</i> Rose Elizabeth Granger-Weasley.”</p><p>The little girl sighed deeply and nodded.  “Okay, Mummy.  I promise.”</p><p>“Pinky swear?”  Hermione stuck out her right hand, pinky finger extended, and grinned.</p><p>Rose giggled.  “Pinky swear!”</p><p>They locked pinkies and then Hermione drew her daughter into a hug, laying her cheek against the top of Rose’s head and closing her eyes as she breathed in the clean scent of her daughter’s wavy, red hair.</p><p>Later, after the children had been tucked up in bed, Hermione sank back into the same armchair and surveyed the living room she’d spent so many comfortable hours in over the past eleven years.  It was as familiar and warm as a favourite old jumper, everything in its place, crammed with so many things that were dear to her.</p><p>The cottage was modest but nicely sized for a young couple and their growing family.  She recalled the days she and Ron had spent shopping for furniture, how excited she’d been at the prospect of choosing everything fresh and new and lovely, just as her marriage to Ron had been fresh and new and lovely.  In the beginning.  </p><p>It wasn’t until just after Rose was born, two years into the marriage, that things had begun to change.  Imperceptibly at first – now and then a sharp word, a bit of impatience, forgetting a birthday or their anniversary, the occasional evening when she hadn’t known where he was and couldn’t locate him, more and more of those evenings and a curiously belligerent reaction when she’d questioned him later, or simply withdrawal and sullenness. Then, Hugo had come along two and a half years later, and for a time, things had seemed to calm down a bit.  But eventually, financial discrepancies began to appear. Periodically, money went missing from their account at Gringotts.  Increasingly, things were not adding up on many levels.  Something was very wrong.</p><p>Hermione’s gaze fell upon the polished cherry writing desk, her pride and joy.  And then the memory of something she’d found in the top drawer – three years earlier and quite by accident – came rushing back, as it always did when she allowed her thoughts to linger long enough on the desk.  </p><p>It had been a very small, unremarkable slip of parchment that somehow got wedged between the back of the drawer and the frame of the desk.  She’d been trying to open the drawer and had found it stuck.  Sighing in annoyance, Hermione had taken every single thing out of the drawer, lining the items up on the blotter one by one.  At last, the drawer was empty and she’d stuck her hand all the way to the back to feel for whatever was causing the jam.  A small piece of parchment came loose between her fingers at last, and she drew it out and examined it.</p><p>It was a balled-up note from someone who was owed a great deal of money and was intent on collecting it. He was not averse to making threats, and in fact, what he threatened to do to Ron if the debt went unpaid was described in quite elaborate and colourful detail.  The sum owing was rather large.  Ron had been gambling, and from what Hermione could surmise, he’d been doing it – and mostly losing – for quite some time, and not only on Quidditch matches.  He’d apparently been quite happy to risk their financial security five ways to Sunday on whatever bets were going, any time and anywhere.  Sports matches, cards, anything you could put money on.</p><p>The confrontation had been horrible, an utter conflagration.  In the end, after the shouting and the tears, Ron had agreed to seek help.  They had even gone together to a first appointment with a healer at St. Mungo’s.   Cautiously, clutching onto hope laced with fear and scepticism, Hermione began living moment to moment, never allowing herself to think about tomorrow. Today, right now, was all that mattered.  Things would be better, she told herself.  He was trying.</p><p>And then everything came to a crashing halt one night a year later, when the children were seven and nearly five.  They’d been bathed and put to bed and now Hermione paced back and forth in the warm, comfortable living room that gave her no comfort at all that night, waiting for Ron. It had rained very hard, and he hadn’t yet arrived home.  Hermione had grown nervous at first, and then increasingly frightened as the hours passed.  Nobody had seen or heard from him.  She’d checked with everyone she could think of by Floo call and had come up empty.  The hours ticked by with excruciating slowness and the rain bucketed down.</p><p>The knock on the door was muffled but insistent.  Hermione glanced at the clock on the mantel.  11:29 pm. With hands that had grown suddenly clammy and cold, she pulled open the heavy door, stepping back to avoid the curtain of rain and wind that blew in.</p><p>It was Harry.  One look at his face and Hermione’s courage and resolve crumbled.  Knees buckling, she collapsed into Harry’s arms, shaking and sobbing silently.</p><p>Eventually, they’d sat down on the sofa.  Harry had made them both a hot mug of very strong tea.  Hermione held hers numbly, her brain refusing to work.  The words Harry was saying were making no sense.  He’d been where?  With whom?  Doing what?  Nothing was sticking with any coherence.  In the end, all she knew was that he’d been killed.  The gambling had apparently continued, despite the therapy, and he’d racked up an enormous debt that he couldn’t possibly pay back.  And his creditor had finally put paid to the debt once and for all.  The threat had become real.  Ron was gone.</p><p>As were most of their savings. </p><p>That was two years ago.  Since then, Hermione had patched together a living doing free-lance editing and writing for the Daily Prophet and tutoring young witches and wizards as they prepared for their exams during the winter and summer holidays. Neither job paid particularly well, but it kept the roof over their heads and put food on the table.  And she could be with her children, which mattered more than anything else now.</p><p> As she leaned back into the cushy pillows and let every muscle in her body relax, her gaze fell upon a letter that had arrived by owl post that afternoon. Things had got so busy, what with homework and dinner and baths, that she’d quite forgotten about it. Reaching for it, she turned it over in her hands, a tiny frisson of excitement flaring in her chest.  There was something very familiar about it that particular parchment and the writing on the front.</p><p>Carefully, she opened the envelope and pulled the contents out.  It was a letter written in a fine, old-fashioned hand.  Her eyes scanned the contents quickly and with growing excitement, and at last, she began to laugh with delight and unutterable relief.  The huge weight on her shoulders had suddenly dissolved, all because of the words in one short letter.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<i>31 December 2015<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
My dear Hermione,</i> it began.  <i>I hope you and the children are well.  Once again, I must tell you how very sorry I was to hear of Ronald’s death.  Despite the impression I may have given to the contrary, I was always very fond of him when the two of you were at school.  </i></p><p>
  <i>I am writing now to ask a tremendous favour of you, and if you find that you cannot accept what I am proposing, I will certainly understand.  We are in desperate need of a teacher of Muggle Studies, as our Professor Quiller-Couch has been forced, mid-term, to retire due to ill health. I can offer you a handsome salary with full benefits, and of course, you would have a spacious and comfortable suite of rooms that would easily accommodate your children’s needs as well.  In addition, I would provide a private tutor to teach them whilst you are teaching your own classes.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I would need you to begin immediately, if possible, though of course I do understand that you will need some time, at least, to pack and set your affairs in order. Students return on Friday, 8th January, and classes begin on Monday the 11th. If you find the work agreeable, I will draw up a more permanent contract that will apply to future terms.  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Please let me know as soon as possible by return owl if you are interested in the position.  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>I remain, my dear,<br/>
Very cordially yours,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Minerva McGonagall<br/>
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Two</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/>Packing was surprisingly easy.  The house was hers, free and clear.  She would hold onto it.  Most importantly, of course, it was still home, both for her and for the children, and she was not ready to give that anchor up.  So it was simply a matter of choosing clothing and personal items to take to Scotland.  Lots of warm things, for starters.  Hermione remembered only too well how chilly Hogwarts Castle was at all times, but most especially in the dead of winter.  A good supply of woolly socks and jumpers for all three of them would be at the top of the list.<p>Books too, of course.  Everyone’s favourites would go into the trunks, as well as school books for Rose and Hugo.  She’d been home-schooling them for the last four years and already had a good supply of the most important ones.  They needed to learn the fundamentals, of course, but Hermione had been determined that they should also be exposed in more depth to subject matter not considered absolutely necessary for young wizards and witches: maths, literature, geography, history, and science.  </p><p>“Mummy!  Can I bring Oscar and Eleanor?” came a high, piping voice from down the hall one evening, a week later.</p><p>Hermione grinned, poking her head around her daughter’s doorway.  “Well, that depends.  Do you suppose they’ll like living in a draughty old castle in the wilds of Scotland?”</p><p>Sitting cross-legged on the floor, her open trunk beside her, Rose nodded enthusiastically. Her rag dolls, now rather threadbare and shabby, still kept her company every night.  They were an important vestige of her younger childhood, a source of comfort when so much else in her young life had been thrown into flux.  This move was yet another upheaval, but it was different.  Home would still be there for the winter holidays, long summer months, and weekends if they so chose, and she knew that.  This move to Hogwarts was more like an adventure, and Rose was more than ready for it.</p><p>“Yes, Mummy.  I’ve explained everything to them and they’re quite pleased,” she told her mother solemnly, patting the two dolls in her lap.</p><p>Hermione stifled a broader smile and nodded with equal seriousness.  “Oh, well, that’s all right, then. Bedtime in one hour sharp.  We’ve a big day tomorrow, mind.”  She glanced at her watch and a conspiratorial grin stole across her face.  “What about some biscuits and hot chocolate, then?  I’ve made whipped cream.”</p><p>Rose was on her feet in a flash and on her way down the hall almost before Hermione had finished her sentence.  </p><p>“Hugo! Hot chocolate and biscuits!” she called, sprinting past her brother’s room.    </p><p>He stuck his head out as she passed and then fell in line behind her on the way to the kitchen.  Hermione brought up the rear, suddenly feeling a bit wistful.  Things would be different very soon. Their whole lives would be different.  Would the differences be good, though?  Perhaps even better than good?  There was no way to know.  She’d simply have to jump off the deep end and hope she didn’t drown.  At the very least, she hoped there would be water in the pool.</p><p>The next morning, three trunks and a cat carrier stood in the front hall, ready to be transported to Kings Cross Station.  Hermione had called for a taxi, which arrived promptly at 10 AM.  There was still a full hour before the Hogwarts Express departed.  A familiar thrill of nerves erupted in the pit of her stomach at the thought of potential traffic snarls and delays, and beyond all that, what lay ahead in this new chapter of their lives.  She’d felt it every year, that insistent jangle of nerves mixed with excitement at returning for a new school term and seeing Harry and Ron and her other friends, as her parents drove her to Kings Cross.  Some things never changed. </p><p>Smiling at the memory, Hermione glanced out the window and then turned to call the children.  “Come on, then,” she said brightly, ushering Hugo and Rose out the door. “Time to go! Taxi’s here!”</p><p>“<i>Colloportus!</i>”  Tapping the door lock with the tip of her wand, she murmured the spell and then stowed the wand in the safety of her shoulder bag.  </p><p>“Bye, house!” Hugo called, looking back as they walked to the taxi.  “Don’t be lonely without us!”</p><p>Rose rolled her eyes at her little brother’s sentimentality (“Don’t be silly, Hugo! Houses don't have feelings!”), but then she, too, stole a last glance backwards as they walked.  “The house won’t be lonely, will it?” she asked her mother, suddenly sounding a bit sad.  </p><p>“Maybe a little bit, at first,” Hermione said quietly.  “But I think it knows that we’ll be back before too long.  Before you know it, even.  And in the meantime, it’ll have the trees and the birds and squirrels to talk to every day.  I expect it’ll enjoy the quiet.”</p><p>“Good,” Rose murmured happily, smiling and hugging Oscar and Eleanor to her chest. The answer had been satisfactory.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/>Kings Cross Station was precisely the chaotic scramble of students, trolleys piled high with trunks and other luggage and belongings, and parents giving wistful hugs and kisses that Hermione remembered.<p>“Come on, you two,” she instructed firmly.  “Hold my hand, Hugo, whilst I push the trolley. Rosie, you walk on my other side and help me push.  Let’s go.”</p><p>Walking briskly, she steered her entourage towards the brick barrier between Platforms 9 and 10.  Platform 9 ¾ awaited on the other side.  </p><p>“What are we supposed to do now?” Rose asked plaintively.  “I don’t see the train.”</p><p>“There’s only one way to get to the train, I’m afraid. And it’s going to sound really silly.  We must stick close together, and when I say ‘go,’ we’ll run as fast as we can.”</p><p>Hugo peered up at his mother, confused.  “But…” </p><p>“There’s a wall there, Mummy,” Rose pointed out, frowning.  </p><p>“That’s right.  But not for us. We’ll go right through it.  I promise.”  Hermione smiled and winked, giving their hands a reassuring squeeze.  “It’s <i>magic</i>,” she whispered.  “Okay, are you both ready?”</p><p>Still doubtful, they nodded.  </p><p>“Go!”</p><p>They ran.  The brick wall opened for them as if it were nothing more than air.  Abruptly, they found themselves on the other side, and there was the Hogwarts Express, gleaming in the bright winter sunshine, impressive billows of smoke issuing from its chimney.  Two warning toots and everyone scrambled to board.</p><p>Rose and Hugo’s eyes were alight with excitement, all fear and lingering reluctance to leave home gone.  The compartment they settled in was comfortable and private, the journey ahead the best adventure they’d ever had, and best of all, their mother had just treated them to cauldron cakes and a box each of chocolate frogs, to be saved for after lunch.  </p><p>Listening to the children’s happy chatter as they played a game of “I Spy,” Hermione sank back into the tweedy upholstery of the seat and sighed.  The first big hurdle of the day was behind her; she’d got her family onto the train in one piece and on time.  The Great Unknown lay ahead – so many unanswered questions, so much she couldn't even begin to predict! – but for now, it was enough that they were on their way, heading towards real solvency and possibly much more, in a place she’d loved since she was eleven years old.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Three</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>8 January 2016<br/><br/><br/>Draco Malfoy stared at his reflection in the faintly wavy mirror above the sink in the small en-suite adjacent to his bedroom.  His reflection stared back at him, pale and bleary-eyed.  It had been a long evening, taken up with the usual, endless welcome-back blather following a start-of-term feast that was utterly predictable as well.  He really hadn’t been in the mood for any of it, and had just about managed to muster a faint, albeit cordial, smile when McGonagall introduced him in passing to the student body, as if he’d really needed any introduction.  Everybody knew who he was.  His reputation had preceded him for years. The sly, sidelong glances from his female students, accompanied by a flurry of half-suppressed giggles, had begun on day one, five years ago, and had never stopped.  It seemed to infect every age from the first years right up to the seventh years, though the older girls tended to be a bit more brazenly flirtatious whereas the younger ones were simply embarrassed.<p>Then there was the other sort of look he got on occasion, generally more often from the males in his classes: the thoughtful, curious gaze that told him quite plainly that the student in question knew of his family’s history at the school, most specifically <i>his</i> history dating back to sixth year, and the horrific things he’d done in those final two years that had forever changed the lives of so many.  One thing above all.  Sometimes he wondered whether his choosing to seek out the position of potions master had been, at least in part, an attempt to make up for what he’d done.  A sort of penance.  If so, it hadn’t done much for him so far.</p><p>Over time, he’d learnt to live with the silly schoolgirl crushes he knew he inspired, and with the scrutiny and the notoriety as well. In a strange way, he’d even begun to welcome the latter with a sort of unspoken defiance.  One really hard stare at the offending student was usually sufficient.  “Yes, I’m <i>that</i> Draco Malfoy,” he intended his expression to say.  “Now bugger the fuck off!”</p><p>He sighed and began mechanically brushing his teeth. The evening had been eminently predictable.  Well, except for one thing. There had been something he’d found very surprising indeed.  In fact, he still couldn’t quite believe what he had seen. Sitting at the extreme opposite end of the long dais was a brand-new teacher, a young-ish, rather attractive woman his own age who’d been hired to replace old Quiller-Couch for Muggle Studies. Petite and fine-boned, her chestnut brown hair pulled into a smooth chignon at the nape of her neck, she sat erect and composed as she gazed at the entire student body at the four long house tables before her.   Once or twice, he’d caught her flashing a quick, fond smile in the direction of the Gryffindor table in particular.  There was something uncannily familiar about her, and it had niggled at him throughout the entire meal.  And then McGonagall had introduced her by name to welcome her to the school.</p><p>Hermione Granger.  </p><p>Of all people in the universe, Hermione Granger was the last person he’d expected to see sitting at the staff table on this January evening.  Eighteen years had passed since they’d last seen each other.  And that last time had been when the world was quite literally falling apart around their ears.  The war had destroyed the ancient castle, turning it into a battlefield, a sterile, unrecognisable moonscape.  The injured and dying were everywhere amidst the wreckage.  Potter had killed the Dark Lord at last.  The war was over.  And now, it remained for the survivors to pick up the pieces and find a way to put together a life with some semblance of meaning.  </p><p>She’d stood some distance away from him, Weasley’s arm possessively around her shoulders.  Potter had joined them and the three of them had remained motionless, joined in a tight hug, oblivious to everything and everyone around them.  Like everyone else, she’d been dirty and ragged-looking, thin and pale, utterly exhausted.  He knew he’d looked very much the same.  </p><p>And then he’d backed away and left, following the urgings of his parents.  </p><p>But… there had been a moment before that, a fleeting envelope of time when he’d had the chance to walk away – away from Voldemort, away from the easy out.   Away from the disastrous choices he’d already made. An opportunity to turn his back on those choices and in the space of a second, make a different, very public declaration.  He could have done it.  In one way – he had known it even then – it would have been so easy.  The decision of a mere moment and the course of his life would have changed dramatically and forever.</p><p>But he hadn’t.  And the chance had passed.  He had left with his parents and after that, there were no further choices that would have much meaning or value.   Now he found himself wondering what choices she had made after that day – well, beyond marrying Weasley, of course.  That was common knowledge.  What else had she done with her life?  </p><p>And had everyone else on staff known about her appointment before this?  Not that it mattered, really, he told himself, climbing into bed and burrowing down beneath the covers.  They probably wouldn’t have much to do with each other.  He could just see it now: war heroine befriends traitor.  No.  Not bloody likely.   It would be polite, superficial conversation about the weather, the occasional professional consult regarding a student, and nothing more.  Well, that was just fine with him.  He didn’t need Hermione Granger’s friendship or her approval either, for that matter.  She knew sod-all about him. Who the hell was she to judge, anyway?</p><p>With a final, indignant snort, he pulled the covers over his head and shut his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>11th January 2016<br/>Monday<br/><br/><br/>‘Well. That wasn’t too awful,’ Hermione thought to herself as she packed up her books.  She’d just had her first Muggle Studies class immediately following breakfast, with a small group of third years.  It suited her very well to be teaching an elective.  The general attitude of most of the students was just as she’d remembered it from her own student days: about half were there because they were genuinely interested in the subject, and the rest because they reckoned it was a class they could sleep through and still pass.  No overtly bad behaviour either way.<p>Whichever camp her students fell into, all of them had let it be known fairly quickly that her predecessor hadn’t exactly piqued their interest.  Rather, they’d grown accustomed to taking mental naps in the class.  Quiller-Couch tended to drone on <i>ad nauseam</i> and was quite near-sighted on top of everything else.  Apparently, he never noticed the many near-comatose students right in front of his nose.  Hermione hid a smile as she reassured them that things were going to be quite different from then on.  They’d actually have to study and work hard. But the projects would be intriguing. </p><p>She hoped they would be, at any rate.  Smiling ruefully to herself, she stuffed the last of her books into a large leather satchel and made her way to the grand staircase en route to the staffroom, which was on the ground floor.</p><p>As she moved down the stairs, past the familiar moving figures in the paintings, Hermione found herself lost in thought, one thought in particular – or rather, an image she couldn’t seem to shake.  It was the face of a man, his fair hair a bit longish and in need of a trim, features finely chiselled, a hint of a beard coming in, mouth occasionally lifting in a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. </p><p>She knew that face. </p><p>She’d spotted him at the welcome-back feast three evenings earlier, seated at the other end of the staff table.  Preoccupied with greeting other professors and introducing herself to those who were new to her, chatting with the Headmistress, and getting lost in memories that being in the Great Hall inevitably brought to mind, she hadn’t noticed him at first.  But then, the distinct sensation of being observed came over her and she glanced around, her gaze finally lighting on the far end of the dais.  He was indeed staring at her quizzically, as if he weren’t quite sure who she was.  </p><p>That changed almost the moment Minerva McGonagall introduced her to the student body. Applause welled up in the hall and Hermione nodded, beaming with pleasure. The sounds of clapping still echoing, she turned her head slightly, her eyes searching out his face and finding a wholly different expression there now: the shock of sudden recognition.  This was actually rather satisfying.  Evidently, Draco Malfoy really hadn’t realised who she was at first, but now he knew.  Hermione Granger was now a colleague he’d have to respect and with whom he would have to work.  There was something else as well. She could swear that the look he’d been giving her before realising her identity was a very particular sort of appraisal.  He’d been checking her out, she was sure of it.  Mudblood Granger.  Hah. </p><p>The staffroom, a rectangular, wood-panelled space with mismatched armchairs and several tables, was nearly empty at this relatively early hour.  Most of the other professors were either in class or in their offices.  A couple raised their heads when Hermione walked in, nodding in greeting and then returning to their coffee or tea and newspapers.  The Daily Prophet had come earlier that morning by owl, during breakfast.  Hermione had her own copy stashed in her satchel.  Rosie had insisted that she take it with her for the day’s classes, “in case there’s something important in it that you need to talk about, Mummy.”</p><p>Rosie and Hugo.  Their dear faces swam into her thoughts as she set her satchel down on one of the tables.  Right about now, they’d be doing their lessons with the tutor that Headmistress McGonagall had secured to work with them, an exceedingly bright and good-looking sixth-year called Stuart.  Hermione could tell, by the way that her precocious daughter had looked at him and blushed, that Rose already had the makings of a serious crush.  ‘Note to self,’ she thought.  ‘Check to make sure she’s actually doing the work he’s assigned them and not just mooning about.’</p><p>Next to the self-warming pots of tea and coffee, there was a plate of rather delectable-looking breads and muffins and a variety of jams.  Tempting, but Hermione decided not to indulge.  Breakfast with the children in their rooms had been more than sufficient and quite pleasant, though a bit rushed because of Hermione’s nerves before that very first class.  They would take all their meals together there every day, rather than dine with the rest of the school, and that suited Hermione very well.  There was no proper place for them in the Great Hall, and to seat them with the staff would be a poor fit.   </p><p>For the matter of that, it was just as well that they were mostly confined to their suite of rooms, at least for the time being. Perhaps once she got her bearings and became better acquainted with some of the younger students, she might introduce them to Hugo and Rosie and allow managed visits.  The last thing she needed or wanted was to have her kids running amok in the castle, exploring and getting into trouble.  That would come soon enough, once they were actual students themselves.</p><p>“Trouble making up your mind, Granger?”</p><p>She turned her head.  Slouched in one of the armchairs, its upholstery slightly threadbare, Draco Malfoy gave her a ghost of a half smile, one eyebrow raised.  The question was, on its face, asked carelessly and without obvious rancour, but she sensed a challenge beneath the words.</p><p>“Coffee?” she asked pleasantly, by way of reply.  </p><p>He shook his head.  “No, thanks.  I’ve already had two cups. The stuff’s pretty vile anyway.  I’d have the tea if I were you.”</p><p>Hermione’s eyebrows went up at that, but she said nothing.  Pouring herself a full mug of the tea, which had steeped very nicely into a dark amber colour, she added a spot of milk and some honey and then sat down in the adjacent armchair, bringing the mug to her nose and inhaling appreciatively.</p><p>For several minutes, nothing was said.  Then Draco turned his head and regarded her quite frankly.  “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Not terribly tactful, was he.  Hermione almost laughed.  At least he had asked the question in a relatively neutral tone.  She decided not to take offense.  Not yet, anyway.  </p><p>“Same as you, I expect.  I’ve been hired to teach –”</p><p>“Muggle Studies. Yeah.  I heard.”  There was a pause.  Then Draco leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed her with a gaze that was all business. “And just what makes you think you are qualified in the slightest to teach here?”</p><p>He hadn’t wasted any time.  So much for him checking her out at the feast.  Hermione flushed, spots of warm pink blooming high on her cheeks.  </p><p>“No less than you are, Malfoy,” she informed him tartly, “and quite possibly a good deal more, considering that I have been teaching my own children at home for the past four years as well as giving private lessons.  And nobody’s better qualified than I am to teach a Muggle Studies class, for obvious reasons.  I highly doubt the headmistress would have hired me, had she felt that I wasn’t sufficiently well qualified.  Can you say as much?”  She paused a moment and then fixed him with an equally unflinching look. “Exactly what qualifies <i>you</i> to teach here?”</p><p>He hadn’t expected his own question to be thrown back at him, not so directly at least.  After all, he’d been on staff for five years already.  Who was she to question that?  But of course, this was Granger.  As jumped-up and full of herself as ever.  Of course, he was not about to tell her the complete truth, which was that his father had bought the position for him with a hefty donation to the school, after he’d essentially walked away from the family firm. Sticking him out of sight at Hogwarts would be safe and keep him out of trouble. And in any case, he was genuinely good at potions making.  Seemed to have a natural talent for it.  The teaching bit had taken some time to get the hang of, though right from the off, he’d certainly been miles better than his immediate predecessor.</p><p>“Natural abilities.  McGonagall knows talent when she sees it,” he added lazily, with something halfway between a grin and a sneer.</p><p>Hermione's smile was triumphant and a tad smug.   “Indeed she does. Ergo…” </p><p>The two of them fell into an uneasy silence for several minutes, and then Hermione glanced at her watch.  “Oh gosh!” she exclaimed, grabbing her mug and gulping down the remains of her tea.  “I’ve got to run!  Class in five minutes!”</p><p>And with that, she was gone.  Draco gazed after her, sniffing the air in her wake.  It was scented with her perfume, something light and pleasing and faintly vanilla.  He shook his head, picking up the book he’d been reading when she came in.  A whisper of vanilla still clung to the air, as did the memory of those large, forthright hazel eyes.  </p><p>Fucking hell.</p><p>Frowning, he stuffed the book into his leather rucksack and abruptly got to his feet. </p><p>Stalking down the corridor, he headed towards the sanctity of his office to kill the ninety minutes before his next class.  Stupid cow had ruined the staffroom for him with that bloody perfume.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Four</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>11 February<br/>Thursday night<br/><br/><br/><br/>Days became weeks, and before long, four of them had already flown by. It was nearly Valentine’s Day.<p>“Mummy,” Rose piped up one evening, as she was brushing her teeth.  “What –”</p><p>“Rinse and spit first.  Then talk,” her mother advised, stifling a laugh.  “You’re all over toothpaste.”</p><p>“Yuck!” Hugo nodded, his own mouth wreathed in toothpaste foam.  “That’s really nasty!”</p><p>Half an hour later, both children were tucked up in their four-poster beds, cosy and warm.    They’d had their nightly reading session with Hermione – <i>The Hobbit</i>, currently – and both were settling in, comfortably sleepy.</p><p>“Mummy,” Rose said again, abruptly, just as she was on the verge of sleep.  “Can I ask you a question, please?”</p><p>“<i>May</i> I ask you a question,’” Hermione corrected gently.  “And yes, of course you may.  What is it?”</p><p>“Well, I was just wondering… do they celebrate Valentine’s Day here?”</p><p>Hermione considered for a moment.  “Well,” she began, “as I remember it, there were lots of parties in different houses and the Great Hall was decorated on the day.  It’s very pretty, actually. We could have our own little party here, if you like. We could make valentines and decorations and have special treats.”</p><p>Rose’s face lit up and she clapped her hands together with delight.  “That’s perfect!  Because I –” She stopped abruptly, a hand over her mouth.  “I mean, that sounds very nice.”</p><p>“Ask her who she wants to send a Valentine to,” Hugo snorted from beneath the covers and then added, in a singsong falsetto,  “She’s in love!” </p><p>“Shut up, Hugo!” Rose shouted, sitting bolt upright in bed.  “Just shut up!  It’s none of your business!”</p><p>“All right, that’s enough, both of you,” their mother said firmly.  “It’s time for lights out anyway.  I don’t want to hear a sound from this room.  Not. One. Sound.  We can make some plans for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.”  She leaned in and kissed Rose on the cheek and then gave Hugo a goodnight kiss as well, peeling back the covers in order to locate his face.</p><p>Valentine’s Day.  That was one holiday she’d been quite happy to ignore, for years now.  Even when Ron was still alive, they’d been so estranged for so long that to exchange valentines in any serious way was a ludicrous exercise and both of them knew it.  Best not to acknowledge it at all, except with the children.  Until now, that hadn’t been much of an issue in any case.  But Rosie was now old enough to be aware, and apparently, she had her own special reason for wanting to mark the day.  </p><p>Hermione sighed deeply as she stretched out in the welcoming old armchair by the fire, wriggling her toes in the warmth.  Pouring herself a glass of wine, she sipped slowly, revelling in the comfort of the quiet at the end of the day.  </p><p>At moments like this, she missed… not Ron, but having someone special with whom she could share the peace and cosiness of a good fire and a warming glass of wine or cocoa. Who else amongst the staff might be having the same thoughts in the stillness and solitude of their rooms, and how did they deal with the loneliness that must surely creep up on them in moments like this, especially those who had lived alone at the school for years?  </p><p>Practically every professor she could think of was alone, and suddenly, a wave of dread swept over her.  The thought of winding up that way, years hence, was terrifying.  Images of Sybil Trelawney, alone and terribly eccentric, flashed through her mind.  It was all right now, with the kids being so young still.  But they were growing up fast.  Tonight’s discussion of Valentine’s Day was proof of that.  At only nine, Rose was in the throes of a serious pre-pubescent crush, her very first, and Hermione knew it wouldn’t be long before the joys of puberty itself would be upon her.</p><p>Before long, the kids would no longer need her the way they still did now.  In three years’ time, both of them would be here as students themselves. Then what?</p><p>Such thoughts called for a second glass of wine.  Hermione topped up the glass and sat back, determined not to dwell on a future that by rights should remain open and malleable.  She would make of her life what she chose.  Her future would be in her hands and in nobody else’s. She would not be a victim ever again.</p><p>“Here’s to that,” she muttered, taking a healthy sip of the wine.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>14th February<br/>Sunday afternoon<br/><br/><br/><br/>If ever there were a day that brought out the Scrooge in Draco, it was Valentine’s Day.  The past five years in particular had been a real test of his patience, sense of diplomacy, and discretion.  Every year on Valentine’s Day, he received homemade cards, gifts, and treats wrapped in heavily perfumed paper.  His first year, there were a handful, given anonymously.  Of course, the blushes and giggles that came his way as he walked down the corridors throughout the day were generally dead giveaways of the identities of the givers.<p>His second year, there were more.  A lot more. And the quantity only increased exponentially from that point on.  Today marked his sixth Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts, and the number of gifts and cards he’d received was staggering.  There had been a tidy pile outside the door to his rooms that morning.  Throughout the day, more parcels appeared. Sometimes there would be a knock first and then receding footsteps, accompanied by whispers and giggles.  His sense of discretion forced him to wait until everything was quiet again before opening the door.  The last thing he needed was to know the identities of a bunch of silly little girls who had clearly lost their reason.  </p><p>Of course, occasionally, there were some quite enjoyable treats mixed in with the rest. He never minded the chunk of sinfully decadent chocolate ganache cake, bought from Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop in Hogsmeade, that would appear in her signature pink box, or the lovely little frosted tea cakes, everything wrapped in tissue paper and tied neatly with a big, pink bow.  </p><p>The cakes reminded him of the treats his mother used to send when he was a student, care packages from Malfoy Manor that never failed to buoy his spirits when they were flagging for whatever reason.  But then, there were the other things, the little vials of perfume (homemade with a bit of creative mixology, half imagination and half potions lessons) that he dared not even open for fear of causing a stink that even he could not easily banish from his rooms.  Love notes unsigned, gushing with bad poetry and undying declarations of devotion.  Little stuffed teddy bears.  Lollipops and chewing gum, wound together with braided ribbons.  And the valentines themselves, all hearts and flowers and insipid poetry.  He could probably paper his entire suite of rooms with the valentines he’d received, end to end, and still have something left over. </p><p>In the very beginning, it had been flattering, a real ego boost.  Now it was just a royal pain in his arse.  Why couldn’t they just piss off and leave him alone?  Turn their puerile, adolescent attentions to someone their own age, for fuck’s sake?</p><p>Grumbling to himself, he set about brewing himself a pot of very strong tea.  There were essays to grade and they wouldn’t mark themselves.  The pile of parchments waiting for his attention had been intimidating when it was half its current size.  And while he knew that his students were perfectly satisfied with waiting indefinitely to read his incisive comments and see their grades, he couldn’t in good conscience allow their papers to fester and mould in his satchel.</p><p>Three hours later, he rose, stiff and tired, from the desk chair, stretching and rubbing his eyes.  The natural light had gone, casting long shadows along the walls, and so had his concentration.   He glanced at his watch.  Dinner would be starting in the Great Hall in fifteen minutes.  Part of him looked forward to a hearty meal and, he fervently hoped, minimal conversation.  The other part debated whether to go at all, relying instead of making a meal out of one of the parcels of tea cakes instead.</p><p>In the end, common sense and gnawing hunger won out, and he started on his way to the Great Hall.  As he neared the grand staircase, a figure was approaching from the opposite direction.  It was Granger.  She hadn’t noticed him immediately, her attention utterly absorbed by the book she’d got her nose stuck in. When she was just a couple of feet away, though, she glanced up and froze. </p><p>“Malfoy!  Are you all right?  You look dreadful!” she exclaimed.</p><p>“Thanks awfully,” he replied curtly.  “Not that I care what you think, so don’t flatter yourself.  And I’m fine, by the way, since you ask.”</p><p>“Going to dinner?”  She was studying him thoughtfully, as if he’d just sprouted a second head.</p><p>“No. I’m off to carouse and gamble and indulge in illegal substances.  Yes, I’m going to dinner.  Where else?” he drawled.</p><p>Where else indeed.  Typical Malfoy, insufferably rude.  Hermione hesitated, uncertain if she really wanted to do what she’d just now been considering.</p><p>“Look,” she began, ignoring her doubts and going with the impulse, hoping she wouldn’t regret it.  “It’ll be pretty much a madhouse at dinner tonight, what with all the Valentine’s Day stuff, if it’s anything like when we were kids.”</p><p>He nodded glumly.  It was. The thought of actually appearing in person, given his status as every female student’s favourite heartthrob, was enough to put him right off his food, hungry as he was.</p><p>“Anyway, I was wondering…” she continued. “Would you like to have dinner with me and my kids tonight? I was thinking of cooking for a change.  Nothing fancy. If you’d like to join us, you’d be very welcome.”</p><p>“Have dinner with you?  In your rooms, you mean?”  Draco stared at her, incredulous. For some reason, the very idea seemed bizarre.  And then he asked the question he couldn’t avoid. “But… why?”</p><p>At this, Hermione laughed.  “Why not?  Do you like spaghetti?”</p><p>He nodded, truly dumbstruck.  </p><p>“Right, then.  You can come along with me now, if you like. I’m just on my way back,” she said briskly.  </p><p>It was all very matter-of-fact, Draco thought, as he trailed after her, still digesting what had just happened.  Well, he decided, whatever dinner with Granger and her kids ended up being like, it would definitely beat having to endure an hour of stolen glances and fluttering eyelashes, half-suppressed, girlish giggles, and the umpteenth box of chocolates he would add to his current collection of Valentine’s Day booty.  </p><p>Suddenly, he had an inspired idea.  Perfect, too, because they’d be passing right by his rooms in a minute.  </p><p>“Hang on, Granger. I’ll be right back,” he muttered, disappearing inside for a moment. When he reappeared, he had one of the rich, iced cakes he’d received, along with several ice lollies magicked to stay frozen in their box.  “For afters.”</p><p>Hermione smiled and nodded.  “Thanks. The kids will love it.”</p><p>Moments later, she turned the old brass key in the door to her rooms, and they stepped inside.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>The tutor slipped past them as they came in, with a friendly and slightly embarrassed nod of greeting.  There was a homemade valentine from Rose in his hand.  Hermione grinned, wondering what she’d written and if she’d ever tell.<p>The children were surprised that they had company for supper, but once they’d got over their initial shyness, both Rose and Hugo decided that this professor their mum had brought home to dinner was <i>interesting</i>.  They were eager to ask him questions about all sorts of things, mostly how to make things happen magically.</p><p>For his part, Draco was a bit taken aback at first.  He hadn’t been around very young children in ages, and at first, he wasn’t sure how to receive their attentions.  Gradually, though, they won him over, and he sat with them on the sofa, showing them some very simple but impressive spells.  All this while, Hermione was bustling about in the tiny kitchen; Draco could hear pots and pans rattling and a distinct humming.  So Granger sang to herself as she cooked, it would appear.</p><p>Before long, there was the enticing scent of onions and sweet red peppers sautéing in olive oil, along with ground beef, in a savoury red sauce.  The rich, robust scent made his mouth water.</p><p>She reappeared eventually with two glasses of red wine.  Wordlessly, he accepted one of them and nodded his thanks.  She returned the nod and made herself comfortable in one of the squashy armchairs by the fire.  </p><p>“Rosie, Hugo, leave the poor man alone for a moment!” she laughed.  “Give him a chance to relax a bit!”</p><p>“Do you do this often?  Cook, I mean?” he asked abruptly.  “I would have thought –”</p><p>“Breakfasts and lunches, yes.  Dinners, no.  Not usually.  The house-elves take care of it as a rule.  I don't like it, but often it's really necessary because I'm so busy with schoolwork.  I do love to cook, though, and once in a while, I’ll ask for some supplies so I can make dinner myself.  The kids love to help, and ordinarily, they’d have helped tonight as well.   But you were far too entertaining. However,” she added, casting a faux-stern eye on Hugo and Rose, “you lot <i>will</i> set the table shortly.”</p><p>“Okay, Mummy,” the children chorused, and then they turned their attentions back to Draco.</p><p>He seemed far more at ease now.  Interesting, Hermione thought, curled up in the armchair and watching them.  There was an innate rapport there that had been coaxed out of him by her children’s charm and friendly persistence.  It seemed a shame that someone with such a natural way with kids should have no children of his own.</p><p>Dinner got underway shortly after that, a simple spaghetti Bolognese and a fresh green salad.  Conversation at the table was lively, dominated by Rose and Hugo, who were more than happy to chatter on about their home schooling prior to coming to Hogwarts, their house, their cat Lunette (who was hiding, Rosie declared), their friends, their favourite activities, and the magical accidents they’d begun having at very young ages.  Hugo especially wanted to know all about Quidditch and Draco’s experiences as a seeker.  He remained surprisingly patient with all of it; in fact, he seemed to genuinely enjoy their attention now that he was fully in the thick of it, contrary to what Hermione had expected.  The large chocolate cake and ice lollies he’d brought were a huge hit, which only raised him further in their estimation.</p><p>“Professor Malfoy, will you read to us, please?” they chorused, when bedtime was drawing near.  Grabbing at his hands, they pulled him towards their room.  He offered no resistance.</p><p>Hermione smiled to herself.  “Sorry! They’ve kidnapped you, I’m afraid!” she called, as she began collecting the dirty dishes and cutlery and bringing everything to the kitchen sink.  A quick wave of her wand and everything was clean and dry and ready to be put away.</p><p>Draco reappeared some twenty minutes later.  He looked a bit tired but curiously happy.  “They want to say goodnight,” he told Hermione.</p><p>She smiled her thanks and hurried off to tuck the children in, reappearing a few moments later and reclaiming the armchair by the fire.  </p><p>“More wine?” she asked, gesturing towards the bottle on the sideboard.  </p><p>“Yes, I believe I will have a bit more, thanks,” he murmured. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll get it.”</p><p>Pouring them both another glass, he set the bottle down and returned to the sofa, facing the fire.  It crackled and popped cheerfully, banishing the chill from the ancient castle’s walls.</p><p>They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping their wine and enjoying the fire’s warmth and the stillness of the evening. </p><p>Hermione regarded Draco thoughtfully. “You were wonderful with the kids,” she said softly.  “Thank you for being so nice to them.”</p><p>Draco said nothing for a while.  He seemed to be struggling with something he wanted to say.  </p><p>“I have a little boy too, you know,” he said at last, and he almost seemed to be talking to himself.  “His name is Scorpius.  He’s just turned ten.”</p><p>“Where is he?” Hermione asked, surprised.  </p><p>“With his mother. Astoria and I split up when he was just a baby.  I’ve barely seen him the past seven years, not at all the past five. Just as well.  I’m not meant to be a father.  Not fit for it.  I know that.  And Astoria knows it too.”   Draco tossed back the remains of his wine and sat forward, staring morosely into the dancing, crackling flames.  His mood had shifted dramatically in just a few minutes. Suddenly, the warmth of the fire seemed to have died away, replaced by a palpable chill.  </p><p>“Oh, but surely –” she began in protest.</p><p>“Leave it, Granger,” he muttered.  “This is the way it has to be.  Nothing to be done.  Look…” He got to his feet and gazed down at her, his expression unreadable.  “Reckon I really should go.  Still have some essays to read, and it’s getting late.  Thanks for dinner.  Your kids are great, you know,” he added, with just a wisp of a smile lifting a corner of his mouth.  There was sadness in his grey eyes.</p><p>She saw him to the door and watched as he strode purposefully down the corridor, his robes flaring behind him. Then she closed the door, leaning back against it, her mind full of the evening they’d just had. </p><p>Malfoy had a son.  A young boy just a few months older than Rose, gone from his father’s life.  This explained a lot.  Shivering, she pulled the crocheted throw around her shoulders, staring at the fire and the shadows it cast on the old stone walls, lost in a million thoughts and a feeling of melancholy she couldn’t shake.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Five</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>The evening had been both a revelation and a painful reminder of all Draco had missed and would continue to miss in his life, a confluence of powerful experiences that had the ultimate effect of leaving him drained and unable to think clearly.  Family life, first off: was this what normal families were actually like? Families that weren’t dysfunctional as a result of extreme wealth or overweening ambition, constantly disappointed expectations or gravely misplaced loyalties to a misbegotten cause?  Families that were actually close-knit? Mealtimes that weren’t characterised by formality and distance and servants hovering at your elbow, prepared to see to your every need or wish?<p>Granger had been very kind. Surprisingly so, given their history and his own recent behaviour towards her.  Nobody had taken the time to show him kindness like that in a very long while.  Why exactly had she done it? Was there some ulterior motive?</p><p>And then, there was the matter of the children. Granger’s kids had monopolised virtually his whole evening. Normally, had such a scenario been described to him in theory, he’d have found it a turn-off, something to avoid.  Easier, somehow, to simply conclude that kids in general were noisy, selfish, whiny, and demanding, and certainly not the dinner companions he’d go out of his way to choose, much less spend a lot of time with.  But it hadn’t been like that tonight. Instead, he’d found himself genuinely enjoying their company in conversation before and during dinner and then later – best of all – while reading to them at bedtime.  The aftermath of that pleasure was a fierce, sharp stab of pain in his heart, the pain of losing his son that he’d managed for so very long to deny and bury.  He did not <i>want</i> to feel what he was feeling.  It hurt too much. But now, it was right out there on the surface, raw and bleeding.</p><p>He poured himself a glass of firewhiskey, not caring that it wasn’t the best idea to mix it with the wine he’d already had.  Right now, he craved blessed oblivion any way he could get it. </p><p>Later, as he drifted off into a heavy, dreamless sleep, he remembered the firelight and the way it had backlit her soft, shining hair like a corona, the faint scent of vanilla still there.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>For the next few weeks, the two of them engaged in a dance of pursuit and avoidance.  Hermione was determined to find out why Draco had been so forcibly separated from his child and why he truly believed such a dreadful situation was for the best.<p>For his part, Draco was convinced that Hermione was up to something, that she had a secret agenda that would explain why she’d gone out of her way to be friendly and generous after he had been very much the opposite towards her.  No reasonable person would behave that way, especially in light of their entire history at Hogwarts as students.  </p><p>Whenever they happened to be in the staffroom at the same time, she attempted to engage him in conversation, which he routinely stonewalled, all the while eyeing her suspiciously.</p><p>“Merlin’s sake, Malfoy!” she finally said in exasperation one afternoon in late March.  “I just want to help you, that’s all!  Why won’t you let me?”</p><p>He turned from his tea to glare at her.  “Do I look like a charity case to you, Granger?” he asked curtly.  “Because I assure you, I most certainly do not need help, especially from you.  Why the hell are you involving yourself in my private affairs anyway?  They are none of your business!  Now kindly piss off!”</p><p>Virtually as soon as the words “charity case” came out of his mouth, Draco knew he’d got his answer.  That was it!  He was her pet project, apparently.  Her good deed of the month.  </p><p>Hermione shrank back, dismay written all over her face and hurt in her eyes.  The hurt turned to anger quickly, however, and she set her mouth in a thin, tight line.</p><p>“Fine,” she replied, her tone icy.  “I won’t trouble you any further.  Rose and Hugo asked me to give you this, by the way.  You can bin it if you like.  I won’t tell them.”</p><p>She held out a crayon drawing, a self-portrait of the two children, Hermione, and their little cat, inscribed with the words “To Professor Malfoy from Rose and Hugo.”</p><p>Dropping the drawing on the table beside his teacup, Hermione turned sharply on her heel and marched out of the staffroom.</p><p>Draco trained his gaze on his cup, not raising his eyes until he was sure she was out of the room.  Then he picked up the drawing, slumping back in the chair and expelling an involuntary sigh.  The pang he felt quite against his will was hard to ignore or dismiss.  Those kids had managed to dismantle his defences in a way he hadn’t allowed in years.  Their open, guileless charm and friendly overtures were virtually irresistible.  They were just being themselves, reaching out and inviting him into their world.  Was his son a friendly kid as well, he wondered?  Or had he already been corrupted by money and privilege and life as an only child with a mother whose parenting style wasn’t exactly what one could call relaxed, warm, or hands-on?  His parents did make an effort to be a part of Scorpius’ life, Draco knew, but that could be a double-edged sword: first of all, he wasn’t at all sure how much time they actually spent with the boy, despite living under the same roof.  More to the point, did he really want his son to be brought up with the same values, formality, and perpetually disappointed expectations to which he had been subjected?  Both sides of that coin were problematic.  </p><p>Astoria had been a terrible wife to him, chilly and distant and volatile in temper.  And she was vindictive, to boot. For spite, she’d kept him from seeing Scorpius as much as she could over the years, claiming that Draco’s influence would be an unhealthy one.  </p><p>The problem was, Draco could not argue with that. To build a child’s self-esteem, a parent had to feel worthy himself.  And on that count, Draco recognised that he fell very far short.  He was damaged goods and he knew it. And so, in the end, he’d regretfully acquiesced to Astoria’s decision to keep their son from his father, concluding that it would be better to stay away than to poison his son’s mind and heart.  And he’d done it – for years.  By choice, he was now a virtual stranger to his son.</p><p>But now, all the feelings he’d done such a good job of burying had been resurrected and exposed.  Now, on top of everything else, he knew himself to be an utter fraud.</p><p>Feeling as if his heart had died in his chest, he looked at the drawing, a childishly naïve and sweet rendering of the young family, meant to be a gift that would be happily received and appreciated.  Carefully, he folded it in half and slipped it into a book for safekeeping.  He was quite sure he didn’t deserve such a fine gift, but he would take it nevertheless.  Oddly, it was the closest he’d felt to Scorpius in many years.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Six</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>15th May<br/>Sunday afternoon<br/><br/><br/><br/>March came to a close, and April came and went uneventfully.  By mid-May, the trees, lawns, and shrubbery around the castle had turned a fresh, new green, and the very air smelt like spring. Azaleas, patches of bright pink, white, coral, and crimson against the dense darkness of the Forbidden Forest, were blooming gaily in defiance of the tangled thickets and stands of tall trees behind them.  There had been quite a lot of rain in the last few weeks, keeping the entire school indoors, and everyone was eager to get outside and stretch their legs.  Six weeks remained before the end of term, and the staff were busy getting through the last sections of their class curricula and preparing their students for the inevitable exams in June.<p>Hermione had hardly seen anything of Draco for weeks now.  He was almost never in the staffroom, at least not when she was there.  It almost seemed as if he’d gone into voluntary hibernation, though Hermione knew better.  She occasionally heard snatches of conversation between students in which his name was mentioned, so she knew he was still physically there, at least, and meeting his classes.  What his emotional state was, she had no clue.</p><p>However, what she overheard was troubling, to say the least. One such conversation had taken place between two fourth-year girls walking ahead of Hermione down a corridor after class one day.</p><p>“Malfoy’s been really strange lately, hasn’t he?  He looks terribly unhappy.” </p><p>“He really does! I reckon he’s lonely!  It’s just so sad.”  There was a heavy, heartfelt sigh. </p><p> “Oh! Maybe he’s pining for a lost love…”  </p><p>“Don’t be stupid,” a male voice cut in, heavy with sarcasm.  “The only thing he’s pining for is for you lot to shut it and mind your own bloody business!”  </p><p>Unhappy.  Lonely.  Two adjectives Draco Malfoy had always made it his business never to inhabit – at least not in front of others.  This much Hermione had intuited on her own from simple observation. “Defensive” was a big part of the equation as well. That wall had gone up pretty quickly after the lovely evening he’d spent with her and the kids.  That was three months ago now, she realised with a start.  He’d done a bang-up job of isolating himself – at least from her, if not from everyone – in the interim.  But things didn’t have to remain that way and wouldn’t, not if she had anything to say about it.</p><p>Pursing her lips together with a determined nod of her head, Hermione made a decision.  Nobody should be allowed to wallow in his own misery without even an attempt to make things better.  This would be for his own good, this whatever-it-would-be.  She just had to work out exactly what that was.</p><p>By teatime, there was the smallest kernel of an idea.  By dinner, it had evolved a bit further, to the point where she sought out Headmistress McGonagall to discuss it and secure her cooperation.  By the time she’d tucked the children up in bed, the plan was set.  Lying in bed later that night, she smiled into the darkness.  </p><p>It could work.  It really could work.</p><p>The next evening at dinner, Hermione sat the kids down and then slipped into the chair opposite them.</p><p>“I’ve got a project that I really need your help with, both of you,” she began.  “Actually, the headmistress and I both need your help.”</p><p>Hugo and Rose glanced at each other, bemused, and then Rose shrugged at her brother.</p><p>“What is it, Mummy?  What do you need us to do?” she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.</p><p>“Well,” Hermione began carefully, “first, I need both of you to write a letter to someone.”</p><p>“Who?” Hugo leaned forward, scratching the tip of his nose, and folded his arms expectantly.  “What sort of letter?”</p><p>“A friendly letter, telling about yourselves and asking the person you’ll be writing to about himself,” she explained.  “And then, inviting this person to come and visit you here at the school.”</p><p>Hmm.  That didn’t sound too difficult.  </p><p>“Okay,” Rose replied eventually.  “We can do that.  Who is the person we’ll be writing to?”</p><p>“Scorpius Malfoy.  Professor Malfoy’s son.”</p><p>Rose looked faintly dumbfounded.  “I didn’t know he had a son!  He never said.”</p><p>“Well, he does, and in fact, he’s just your age, Rose.  The two of you will be in the same year at Hogwarts, starting the September after next.  I think he didn’t mention it because he misses his son so much and talking about him makes Professor Malfoy very sad.” </p><p>Rose nodded sagely.   “I understand.”</p><p> “I knew you would, sweetheart.”  Hermione smiled at her daughter tenderly.  “Now, about the plan itself: eventually, beginning now and going all the way through next term, all the younger siblings of current students, the ones who are your age specifically, will be invited to come and visit the school and learn about what to expect when they’re here as first years.”  </p><p>“Will we be writing to all of them?” Hugo asked plaintively. Such a task had suddenly seemed rather monumental and a bit overwhelming.</p><p>Hermione nodded, amused.  “Yes, you will, eventually. And when they come to visit, you’ll be showing them around the castle – with supervision, of course.  I think you’ll find it fun.   You’ll be Hogwarts ambassadors. What do you think?  Rose?  Hugo?”</p><p>The two children looked at each other and then back at their mother.  It was an interesting idea.  They’d have loads of responsibilities.  Headmistress McGonagall would be depending on them to do a good job, as would their mother.  </p><p>A quick whispered conference and the two of them turned smiling faces to Hermione.  “We’ll do it! When do you need us to write the letters?”</p><p>“Tonight, please. We’ll go to the Owlery when you’re finished and send them off.”</p><p>Before long, the letters were finished.  Headmistress McGonagall had written a brief one of her own to Draco’s ex-wife on official Hogwarts letterhead, explaining the program and urging her to allow Scorpius to attend.  Hermione pulled jumpers over the children’s heads, as the Owlery was fairly draughty at the best of times, and they set off, parchments in hand.  Folding the three letters into small squares, Hermione fitted them into the thin, metal letter holder that would be affixed to their chosen owl’s leg.  In a moment, all was ready.</p><p>“Right,” she said, grinning.  “Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.  Off you go, then!”  And she sent the tawny owl soaring into the black night sky, glittering with stars.  Its wings flapped mightily, its outline framed for a moment against the huge yellow moon, and then it vanished.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>The reply was in the owl post the next morning.  Scorpius would arrive on the evening of 20th May, a Friday, accompanied by his grandmother, Narcissa Malfoy.  They would stay for two nights at the Ravenswing, a relatively new inn on the outskirts of Hogsmeade that was already enjoying a growing clientele as the only decently clean and above-board alternative to the somewhat seedy Hog’s Head.<p>According to the instructions Headmistress McGonagall had sent, they were to come to the school on Saturday morning at ten. Narcissa would deliver him safely into the care of the headmistress, who would see to it that he was properly introduced to Hermione, Rose, and Hugo.  They would then take it from there.  Narcissa would collect him again at nine pm and bring him back the following morning.  He’d have all of Sunday at the school and leave with his grandmother after dinner that evening.  Two full days and an evening seemed like plenty of time to acquaint the boy with the workings of Hogwarts, Hermione thought with satisfaction, at the same time making sure that he’d have sufficient time with his father as well.</p><p>Thinking about all of it, her palms became slightly sweaty with a sudden attack of nerves. What if things didn’t go as she’d hoped?  What if, in fact, the whole weekend was a disaster?  What if Scorpius refused to talk to his father?  What if Draco refused to even see his son?  He had a bad temper at times.  What if that temper exploded and the entire weekend were ruined?  He’d blame her for sure, accuse her of interfering and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.  There could be very serious damage that would be impossible to undo and it would be all her fault.</p><p>‘Stop!’ her inner voice commanded sternly.  ‘It’s going to be fine!  FINE!  Just make sure,’ she added to herself, ‘that he knows ahead of time that Scorpius is coming.  No last-minute surprises!’</p><p>As it turned out, she needn’t have worried about Draco being informed.  His mother had taken it upon herself to write to him immediately, letting him know about the program and that she would be bringing Scorpius to the school in four days’ time.</p><p>Hermione could tell just by the look on his face that he knew and that the news had shaken him to the core.  It was now Tuesday, the 17th.  She had come into the staff room for a quick cup of tea between classes and there he was, sitting in his usual armchair as if he’d been turned to stone.  If anything, his face was even paler than usual, like fine marble.  In his hand, he held a letter, the writing on it florid and finely etched in blue ink.  </p><p>As she watched, the letter fluttered to the floor.  Draco didn’t seem to be aware that he’d dropped it.  Hermione stooped to retrieve it, scanning its contents quickly.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Monday<br/>
16 May<br/>
<br/>
Dearest Draco,</i>  it said.<br/>
<br/>
<i>I am writing to let you know that Scorpius and I will be arriving in Hogsmeade this Friday evening, the 20th, for the Future Students weekend beginning on Saturday morning.  I will bring him to the school both mornings and collect him in the evenings.  He is quite looking forward to it.</i></p><p>
  <i>Frankly, I am rather surprised that you did not contact your father and me yourself with regard to this new orientation program for future students.  I think it a marvellous idea and only wish such a program had been in place when you were about to start your first year.  At any rate, I believe Scorpius will benefit greatly from this weekend’s preview of his life at Hogwarts.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Just between us, his first year cannot come soon enough.  Astoria has very little time to spare for him as it is, and this seems to be increasingly true, the older he becomes.  She is far too busy with her own social life, I fear.  Consequently, he spends a lot of time with me and a fair amount of time by himself.  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Draco, your son is a very lonely boy.  I know you have stayed away, convinced that your absence has been for his benefit.  You know I have never agreed with this.  Neither has your father.  I can only hope that you will change your mind and be the father he so desperately needs.  It won’t be easy, beginning now, when so much time has already passed.  But I truly believe the effort will prove to be more than worth whatever it requires of you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Looking forward to seeing you, darling.</i>
</p><p><i>Mother</i><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Oh. <i> Merlin</i>.  Hermione gulped, glancing quickly at Draco’s face to see if there were any further reaction to the news of his son’s imminent arrival.  There was none.  He simply seemed to have gone completely numb with surprise.  More like shock, really, she thought.</p><p>“Draco,” she said quietly, holding out the letter.  “Here. You dropped this.”</p><p>Barely turning his head in acknowledgment, he held a hand out to receive the parchment.</p><p>“Scorpius,” he murmured, the name hardly more than a whisper.  </p><p>Just then, the staff room door swung open and Minerva McGonagall strode in.</p><p>“Ah, Professor Malfoy.  I was hoping to find you here,” she said briskly.  “A word, please.”  Inclining her head towards the corridor outside, she gave him a cordial smile.  </p><p>Dutifully, he rose from the chair and followed her out into the hall. The door shut behind them, frustrating Hermione, who’d hoped to eavesdrop.  She didn’t have long to wait, however, as Draco returned after only a few minutes’ absence, his expression curiously controlled.</p><p>“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” he suggested, taking her arm by the elbow.</p><p>“Um… I can’t,” she faltered.  “I’ve got a class in ten minutes.”</p><p>“No worries.  So do I.  This won’t take long.” His smile was a bit brittle, but otherwise, he seemed perfectly amiable as he steered her out of the staff room and into the corridor.  “It was you, wasn’t it?” he began, still smiling but through clenched teeth now.  “This was all your doing.  I’d bet my last Galleon on it.”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re –” Hermione began lamely and then stopped, anger rising on her own behalf.  “If you’re referring to the Future Students weekend, yes!  Well, mine initially, and then McGonagall’s too.  But we’re only just beginning with your son.  We’ll be doing these weekends for all the children coming in in his year.  If the program is a success, we’ll expand it to all incoming classes.  Scorpius is just the… the guinea pig!”</p><p>The Muggle reference was completely lost on Draco, but the general meaning of her words was not.  Still, he was not placated.</p><p>“You just had to meddle, didn’t you,” he hissed, grasping her elbow and pulling her into a shadowy corner behind a statue.  “Just had to get involved with something you know nothing about!  Do you suppose I don’t love my son?”  Before she had a chance to reply, he went on furiously, his voice low but shaking with barely controlled anger. “It is precisely <i>because</i> I love him that I removed myself from his life!  And don’t ask me why. My reasons are none of your damned business, Granger!  You’ve put me in an impossible position now, do you realise that?  What am I supposed to tell my son when he’s here?  How shall I account for my absence all these years? At least when I was gone, he could write me off, which is what I wanted!”</p><p>“I don’t believe it!” she retorted, her cheeks flushed.  She could feel herself trembling. “You’re just saying that to convince yourself!”  </p><p>“Oh, and of course, you know, do you, Madame Healer?  You can read my innermost thoughts and feelings, can you?”  Draco’s face was white.  “Piss off once and for all, Granger, and take your do-gooder ideas with you!”</p><p>With that, he turned on his heel and left, his angry footfalls retreating down the hall.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>a</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Seven</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>Friday evening came all too soon.  It was difficult for Hermione to keep her mind on the very ordinary and generally pleasurable activities that shaped her weekday afternoons and evenings: lesson planning and marking assignments, sitting down with the children to go over their lessons and help with homework if needed, preparing dinner and then spending the rest of the evening playing games and reading together before bedtime.<p>Not this Friday evening.  Instead, she found her mind wandering to the Ravenswing.  Had Mrs. Malfoy and Scorpius arrived? Was Draco there to welcome them?   Or had he opted to stay in the castle and avoid his mother and son as much as possible?</p><p>And what <i>would</i> he say to Scorpius when they saw each other at last, after five long years?  It was a legitimate question, and she really hadn’t considered it at all; the plan to get them together seemed like such a wonderful idea, their reunion so very long overdue, that the realities of such a delicate situation had simply escaped her attention.  Malfoy was right, and suddenly, now that the weekend was upon her, she knew it.  Her excitement about helping meant she really had stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong, and now real pain and suffering could be the result.</p><p>On the other hand, the kids were bursting with excitement and anticipation, full of questions about what they’d be doing and what Scorpius would be like.</p><p>“What time’s he coming tomorrow?”</p><p> “Can we walk round with him on our own?  Just for a bit?”</p><p>“Has he ever been to Hogwarts before?”</p><p>“Can we have pizza for dinner tomorrow night?</p><p>“Can he sleep over?”</p><p>“Can we stay up late?”</p><p>“Can Professor Malfoy have dinner with us tomorrow?”</p><p>To this final question in particular, Hermione had no ready reply. All she could do was nod and smile, hoping the kids would interpret that as a non-binding yes. She was just as sure he wouldn’t want to join them as she’d been certain her kids would ask.</p><p>Saturday morning dawned bright and mild, an auspicious start to the weekend.  Rose and Hugo were up almost before the sun; Hermione could hear them giggling and roughhousing in their room even as the birds were starting their morning chorus.  Bleary-eyed, she appeared at their door with a stern warning look.  Then she collapsed into bed, pulling her pillow over her head to blot out the world and every bird in it.</p><p>By eight, however, any thought of further sleep had been obliterated. By nine-thirty, everyone was up, dressed, and fed.  Beds had been made and toys, books, and games put neatly away.  No house-elves for this family; Hermione made sure of it.  Now it just remained to wait for their guest to arrive.</p><p>He did, quite promptly, at ten.  Hugo and Rose waited partway up the grand staircase, watching as their mother and Headmistress McGonagall opened the massive doors.  A tall, elegant, older woman with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a beautifully tailored travelling cloak stood there, a small, fair-haired boy by her side.  His resemblance to his father was unmistakable, with one difference: his large eyes were dark and openly expressive, in contrast to Hermione’s memory of Draco Malfoy as a child.  His expression had always been guarded; it seemed that there was always something veiled or hidden behind his grey eyes. There was something eminently hopeful about this, thought Hermione, as she put out her hand to welcome Scorpius.</p><p>“Welcome, young Master Malfoy,” said the headmistress cordially. “And welcome, Narcissa.  It’s lovely to see you again.  We are very pleased your grandson has come to spend the weekend with us here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  As I am sure you know, Scorpius, your father is one of our teachers.  He’ll be here directly, I’m sure.  In the meanwhile, I would like to introduce Professor Granger.  She teaches classes in Muggle Studies, and you’ll be spending much of your time with her and her two children, Rose and Hugo. Rose is just your age and will be starting here at Hogwarts along with you in just over a year.”  Professor McGonagall beamed at the young boy, stepping back and nodding in Hermione’s direction.</p><p> “Hello, Scorpius,” Hermione told him, shaking his hand very seriously.  “We’re so glad you could come.”  She glanced up at Narcissa Malfoy, then, and smiled warmly, extending her hand. She would never forget that this woman had saved Harry’s life all those years ago, by not giving him away in a crucial moment.  “How do you do, Mrs. Malfoy?  Thank you for bringing Scorpius. We will do our best to make this weekend a wonderful introduction to the school.  Right, Rose?  Hugo?”  She looked in her children’s direction and beckoned them downstairs.</p><p>“Rose and Hugo Granger-Weasley, may I present Scorpius Malfoy,” she said with good-humoured formality.  “Scorpius, may I introduce my children, Rose and Hugo.”</p><p>The kids grinned shyly at each other and began conversing a bit hesitantly.  </p><p>As the children began to talk amongst themselves, Narcissa gazed at the school she remembered so well from her girlhood and from years later as well, when it was very nearly destroyed.  Memories of that last day eighteen years before, when she, Lucius, and Draco had left Hogwarts for home, the school a crumbling war zone and Lord Voldemort dead at last, were never far from her thoughts, even as life had moved on in many positive ways.  She knew that her son was similarly haunted, but even more profoundly, though he’d never really opened up to her about any of those demons.  They were there, though, lurking beneath the surface, keeping him from truly moving on with his life.  She’d hoped taking this post at the school would help him to do just that.  Whether it would in the end remained to be seen, but it was evident that his own personal darkness still had him in its grip.  His total absence from his son’s life was proof of that.</p><p>Glancing at her, Hermione couldn't help but notice the expression on Narcissa’s face. Whatever the older witch was thinking about, it was clear that her thoughts were deeply troubling and the cause of great sadness.  </p><p>“Well, Scorpius, I shall see you tonight,” Narcissa began, smiling at her grandson, the mood of a moment before dispelled by the little boy’s smile.  </p><p>“May I stay overnight, Grandmere?  Please?” he asked, clutching at her hand.  “Rose and Hugo have invited me!”</p><p>“He’s more than welcome,” Hermione assured Narcissa.  “We’d love to have him.  If it’s all right with you, you could come collect him tomorrow evening.  Or better yet, tomorrow afternoon for tea.”</p><p>“Oh yes, please, Grandmere!” Scorpius’ eyes were shining.</p><p>“Well,” Narcissa began, looking down at her grandson fondly.  “I suppose that would be all right.  Be good now,” she admonished him with a barely hidden smile.  “Do as you’re told.”</p><p>“Yes, I will,” the boy assured her solemnly.   He threw his arms around his grandmother’s waist and gave her a tight hug, which she returned, kissing the top of his blond head.</p><p>Narcissa turned to smile at Hermione.  “Thank you for everything, my dear.  I would be delighted to come for tea tomorrow.  And yes,” she added. “I do remember you.”</p><p>“I wondered.” </p><p>“War heroine and professor, I see.  Two lovely children.  Excellent,” Narcissa said approvingly, glancing down at Hermione’s left hand and noting the absence of a wedding ring. Then she added, <i>sotto voce</i>,  “Do you have much to do with my son?”</p><p>“I do see him occasionally.  But our schedules are different and he often chooses to keep to himself.  My children like him very much, though.  He was quite lovely with them when he joined us for dinner one night several months ago.”</p><p>“And you?”  Narcissa’s questions were becoming uncomfortably personal.  <i> Do </i>you <i>like him?</i> was the unspoken question that hung in the air.</p><p>“Grandmere!  I have to go!” Scorpius interrupted impatiently, tugging at his grandmother’s cloak.  </p><p>Narcissa laughed lightly and nodded.  “Indeed. I shall see you all tomorrow afternoon.  Goodbye, darling!”</p><p>And with a jaunty little wave, she was gone, the heavy oaken doors swinging shut behind her.</p><p>“Well, Scorpius, what would you like to do first?  We could begin with a walking tour of the school, if you like,” Hermione said, with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.  As excited as he’d been a moment before, Scorpius now seemed a bit nervous, suddenly, finding himself alone with three strangers.</p><p>Two of those strangers had already grabbed him by the hands.</p><p>“Let’s show him where we live first, Mummy!” Rose exclaimed.  “Then the rest of the castle. Wait till you see, Scorpius.  This castle is so cool!”</p><p>Hermione laughed.  “Well, we shan’t be able to see quite everything.  After all, Hogwarts Castle is enormous. But we’ll do our best.  Come on, then.”</p><p>As they climbed the stairs together, Scorpius’ eyes grew huge as he gazed at the moving figures in the paintings that lined the staircase walls.  They became even bigger with surprise as the staircase itself began to shift.  Hermione smiled to herself, recalling her arrival at the school twenty-five years earlier.  Hogwarts had been a place of never-ending wonders, every day holding a new surprise.  The moving staircase was one of the first.</p><p>Before long, the children were showing Scorpius their bedroom in the modest but comfortable flat.  Hermione could hear their excited chatter as she made herself a cup of coffee in the tiny kitchenette. The plan was to take a tour of the castle, highlighting the Great Hall, a few of the classrooms, the library, the Astronomy Tower, the Greenhouses, and finally, the common rooms and dormitories of the four Houses.</p><p>It was an ambitious plan, taking the better part of the day, and Hermione didn’t really expect they would complete the entire tour.  It would be interrupted by lunch, which would be eaten in the Great Hall with the entire school.  In fact, it would be the first time that her own children had had a meal with the students, and Rose and Hugo were in transports of excitement about it.</p><p>“We’ll have our own table, but you’ll still be able to see what it’s like, having meals there with your assigned house,” she told the three children.  </p><p>“It’s our first time too, though of course, we’ve seen it already,” Rose added, as they walked along.  “I love the magical ceiling!”</p><p>They’d just come out of the library, having met Madame Pince and marvelling at the thousands of books surrounding them, and were heading towards Hermione’s Muggle Studies classroom.  When they got there, Hermione let the children wander around, examining all the objects she had collected for displays of Muggle life.  There was a football, an electric lamp, a laptop, a mobile phone, a music disc and CD player, a television, a traditional telephone, a toaster oven, a copy of the London Times, Sunday edition, and several Biros, markers, and pencils.  There were books of fairy tales, poetry, adventure, and mysteries.  There were comic books and textbooks, including world and British histories, and science.  There was a set of vintage encyclopaedias.  </p><p>For her own kids, these things were nothing new.  Because they had Muggle grandparents and had spent a lot of time with them over the years, they’d had the opportunity to become well acquainted with Muggle life and to learn how to use the technologies.  Some of the items were things they actually had at home as well. Their mother had always felt it important that magical folk be conversant with Muggle ways, to better understand them and to be comfortable with them.</p><p>But for Scorpius Malfoy, every object on display was a thing of wonder and amazement.  He moved from one to the next, examining every one of them with a kind of awe and a million questions.  Hermione sat back, smiling, and let her children answer his questions to the best of their ability, intervening only when their replies had been incomplete, confusing, or actually mistaken.</p><p>Finally, it was time to move on.  It was almost time for lunch, and Hermione had wanted very much to show Scorpius his father’s potions classroom, to take a very quick peek inside.  Draco wouldn’t be there on a Saturday, she was quite certain.  It seemed very likely that Scorpius hadn’t yet seen his father; he’d probably have said something if he had.  At this point, with years of virtually no contact between them, it was possible that the young boy had no real memory of his father beyond something very hazy and insubstantial.  It might not even matter to him whether he saw Draco or not.</p><p>They entered the unlocked classroom located in one of the large dungeons, which was dark, dank, and chilly.  The residue of an odour was still in the air, the product of the last lesson taught there the day before. Hermione sniffed, frowning.  </p><p>“Smell that?” she asked the children. “Dittany. It’s an herb used for healing. Take a look around, but do it quickly.  And don’t touch anything!”</p><p>The large classroom’s walls were lined with glass jars containing pickled specimens.  In one corner there was a supply cupboard, a part of the classroom Hermione remembered very well.  As a second-year, she’d secretly nicked some ingredients from that very cupboard in order to make a batch of Polyjuice Potion for herself, Harry, and Ron.  </p><p>Tables and stools filled the centre of the room. It was where students did their potions work, using their cauldrons to concoct whatever admixture was being taught that day.  Altogether, it was an enticingly creepy place, full of mystery and danger.  There was always the chance that some unfortunate student would blow him/herself up on any given day.  It had happened more than once in Hermione’s memory of Snape’s class, generally to hapless Neville Longbottom.</p><p>“See anything that interests you?”</p><p>The deep voice resonated in the silence of the dungeon.  </p><p>Hermione turned quickly and everyone looked in the direction of the speaker. Silhouetted in the doorway, the torchlight from the corridor illuminating his form from behind, Draco stood erect and quite still.</p><p>“Professor Malfoy!”  Hugo and Rose ran up to him, grinning.  “Hi!”</p><p>As innocent and naturally relaxed as they were about the situation, their mother was suddenly paralysed by awkwardness and embarrassment.  She hadn’t expected he’d turn up this way.</p><p>Scorpius stood quite still as well, staring at the man he knew to be his father but who might as well have been a complete stranger.  He said nothing.</p><p>As for Draco, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from his son.  He too said nothing, only stared.  What would Scorpius be thinking?   And gods, the child looked exactly like a smaller version of himself, a duplicate of the boy he’d been twenty-five years earlier.  His son.  His flesh and blood.  No longer a toddler but a growing boy, with a mind and a heart and feelings that ran very deep, according to his mother’s reports.  He could see now that everything Narcissa had told him was true.  Something very like heartbreak stirred painfully in his chest.</p><p>Willing Draco to move, to say <i>something</i>, Hermione could only watch, her own heart in her throat.  This was the moment she’d hoped would change everything, or at least be the beginning of a change, hopefully for the better.  <i>Your son needs you, Malfoy!</i> she thought, wishing very hard for something to break the awful silence.</p><p>Finally, something did.  But it wasn’t what Hermione had hoped for.  Instead, it was Rose, walking confidently toward Draco, taking his hand.  “Come on,” she told him matter-of-factly. </p><p>Just two simple words.  It would have been simple enough to resist. But Draco didn’t.  He seemed to have been rendered completely without a will of his own, unable to do more than mutely follow along. He allowed himself to be led out of the classroom and up to the Great Hall, where students were already arriving for lunch, Hugo taking his other hand and Hermione following with Scorpius.</p><p>There was an awkward silence as they all sat down together.  Then the children began filling in the silences with chatter that was genuinely excited.</p><p>“Look!  Look at the ceiling!  See how it changes!”  Hugo cried, pointing.</p><p>“It looks just like the sky outside!” Rose exclaimed.  “Mummy, you were right!  It’s beautiful!”</p><p>“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Hermione replied, with a smile that she hoped would look genuine and not betray how suddenly scared she was at that moment.  “It changes at night and with the weather.  You can see all the stars at dinnertime, especially in the winter.”  </p><p>She glanced around at the house tables filling rapidly with students who were ravenous and already helping themselves to the savoury foods on platters and in large bowls.  “There, you see?  That table is for Gryffindor House, which was my house. And that one there,” she pointed, “that one is for Ravenclaw.  The one next to it is for Hufflepuff. And the one closest to us is for Slytherin House, which is the house your father…” her voice faltered and died away, and she closed her mouth, swallowing hard.</p><p>“That was my house, yes,” Draco said quietly.  “There’s a good chance you’ll be Sorted into Slytherin, but then again, perhaps not.  Do you think you would like that?”</p><p>“If you think I should, sir,” the boy replied evenly, almost imploringly.  His eyes gave his heart away to anyone who wasn’t blind.</p><p>It wasn’t the answer Draco had expected, and he fell silent once again, unable to look at those dark eyes.  <i>If you think I should, sir.</i>  Gods!  If <i>he</i> thought his son should like something?  <i>He?</i>  Who was he to dictate anything to his son?  A son in name only.  A son who had never had a father in his life.  A beautiful son he had no right to call his own.  It was too late.  He didn’t have it in him to give what his son apparently still wanted.  And even if he did, he’d forfeited the right.</p><p>Stiffly, he stood, leaving his lunch untouched.  “Apologies,” he told them.  “I’m not feeling well, I’m afraid.  Please excuse me.”  And with that, he turned and exited the Great Hall in several long strides.</p><p>Hermione sat quite still, trembling uncontrollably and trying very hard to hide her knees knocking together.  “Well, that’s a shame,” she murmured at last, hoping her voice sounded normal.  “Perhaps we will see him later or tomorrow, when he’s feeling better.  Eat your lunch, everyone.  We’ve lots more to do this afternoon.”</p><p>This was a disaster, and she’d brought it on with her own well-meaning interference.  Malfoy was in pain and, she was sure, furious with her.  And he had every right to be.  Young Scorpius had been brought face to face with his father, only to have his hopes raised and then dashed in front of his eyes.  Even after all those years, he still hoped for something… sought something.  And that hope had been destroyed in the brutality of a silence that his father was unable to fill.  She’d done something quite dreadful to both of them.  And she’d been so very hopeful!  So had Narcissa, she guessed.  But the responsibility for this mess fell squarely on her own shoulders, no matter that the child’s grandmother had tacitly approved of the plan.</p><p>There was nothing for it but to carry on and try to show Scorpius the best time she could.  She resolved then and there to make sure of that much, at least.  She’d figure out the rest later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Part Eight</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>The remainder of the day passed uneventfully enough.  The parts of the castle they hadn’t yet seen took up the rest of the afternoon, and they were back in the flat by dinnertime.  Hermione had requested the ingredients for a homemade pizza, a family tradition she and the kids had enjoyed for years.  It was something Rose and Hugo had particularly wanted to share with Scorpius, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself, both in the making and the eating.<p>“In a way, cooking is really very much like potions making,” she told the three of them as they helped roll out the dough.  “We have to prepare the ingredients, chop and mash and marinate, add it all together, and give it a proper chance to cook, using the right amount of heat.  Now you’ve decided we should add extra tomatoes, onions and cheese to our pizza, right?  That means somebody has to be in charge of chopping the onions into very small pieces. Somebody else will have to cut the tomatoes very fine.  And that leaves the cheese, which will need shredding.  I’ll do the sauce.  Remember, we are going to take special care with the knives.  Keep your fingers away from the blade!  And concentrate on what you’re doing.  Are you all ready to work?”</p><p>The children nodded eagerly.  Before long, all three were clad in aprons and standing before cutting boards, ready to go.  Keeping a careful eye on the knife usage, Hermione stepped back and watched the kids at work, all of them industrious and quite dedicated to their assigned tasks.  Eventually, the pizza went into the oven, filling the small flat with the most marvellous, mouth-watering odour.</p><p>Such food was a revelation to Scorpius, who was never allowed to eat with his hands at home, especially not something as potentially sloppy and undignified as pizza.  He especially loved the way the mozzarella cheese would stretch away from his mouth in long strands.  It was lovely, watching this shy boy blossom with the sort of company that only children of his own age could provide.  Evidently, Hermione concluded, he spent a good deal of time on his own and didn’t have many friends, if any.  Play dates were an unknown quantity.</p><p>She was still thinking about all of this later, when the kids were in their room, in pyjamas, teeth brushed, but still caught up in the excitement of the day.  Shrieks of laughter, giggles, and whispers told her they were still slowly winding down.  She would give them a bit more latitude than her own kids normally got, but these were special circumstances.  They’d seen the Gryffindor common room and one of the dormitories, and now Scorpius in particular could have a taste of what it was like to live communally with one’s peers.  She was pretty sure a pillow fight was going on.</p><p>It was heartbreaking to hear the peals of laughter and to know that this sort of healthy fun, such an integral part of growing up, was missing from Draco’s son’s daily life at home.  And it seemed nothing could be done to alter that reality.</p><p>Finally, it was time for lights out.   Hermione poked her head inside their bedroom door, waved her wand at the lamps, and murmured, “<i>Nox!</i>  You may whisper, but no messing about! We have another big day tomorrow. And Scorpius, your grandmother will be here mid-afternoon.  I think it would be nice if we prepared a special treat for tea. So please give it some thought.  We’ll do that after breakfast.”  She smiled fondly, recalling what her parents always used to say to her before bed.  “Goodnight!  Sleep tight!  Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”</p><p>As she closed the door, she could hear Scorpius questioning the old saying, and Hugo’s answer:  “It’s a Muggle thing.  Gran and Grandpa Granger say it to us all the time when we sleep over.”  He laughed.   “They’re not really scared about bugs.”</p><p>Within half an hour, there was complete silence coming from the children’s room.  Hermione put down her book and went to listen at the door.  They were all fast asleep.  Good.  </p><p>Putting a fresh log on the fire, she poured a glass of wine and settled herself again on the sofa with her book.  Not five minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door.</p><p>Frowning, Hermione went to the door, pulling it open.  Draco Malfoy stood on the threshold, looking distinctly ill at ease.</p><p>“We need to talk,” was all he said, brushing past her and seating himself in one of the armchairs by the fire.  </p><p>With a shrug, she took the other armchair and waited, holding her breath.  When he remained silent, she took her opportunity.</p><p>“Malfoy, look.  I’m so sorry.  Please forgive me!  I had no idea… I mean… The last thing I wanted was to cause you or Scorpius pain or sadness!  Please believe me!”</p><p>Rather than become angry, he seemed to turn in on himself, drained of energy and active anger.  What came out was an exhausted trickle of words telling of feelings that had been tamped down and denied for far too long.  Every word seemed to require extraordinary effort.</p><p>“I told you I had my reasons for not being a part of my son’s life.  But I didn’t tell you what those reasons were.  Now I think you should know, since you’ve gone ahead on your own and involved yourself in my personal life and that of my son."  He paused.  "Do you remember what it was like here, in sixth year? I doubt you’ll recall what I was like back then.”  He looked up at her searchingly for a moment.</p><p>“Actually,” she said slowly, thinking hard, “I do, now that you ask.  I remember you looked really ill, more and more so as the term went on. Thin and very pale and sickly, and unhappy.  And you were very secretive. Like something really heavy was pressing on you, weighing you down.”</p><p>Draco glanced up once again, this time in surprise.  “Well, you’re right. There was something.  And I’m sure you know what it was.”</p><p>She nodded, silently pouring a glass of wine and handing it to him.   </p><p>“I <i>was</i> ill.  The closer I got to having to complete my task –” </p><p>“Killing Dumbledore,” she interjected.</p><p>“Yes, killing Dumbledore.  The closer that came, the worse things got.  I didn’t want to do it.  I really didn’t.  But I was trapped.  Voldemort threatened to kill me and my parents if I didn’t go through with that and letting the Death Eaters into the school.  It was a way to control me, make me comply.  Looking back, I don’t think he expected I would be able to pull any of it off.  He wanted me to fail, because then, you see, he could punish my family.  It was all mind games with him.  He wanted to break me.”</p><p>Hermione took a sip of her wine.  “Go on,” she murmured.</p><p>Draco sighed.  “After that… after he took over the school, that last year was a nightmare.  You weren’t here for that.  I took the Dark Mark.  I had to.  I had no choice. And then I was forced to be present when… when things happened.  Unspeakable things.”  He gave her a long, hard look, a kind of wildness in his eyes.  “I watched Charity Burbage being murdered.  You remember, the professor who taught Muggle Studies.  I was <i>there.</i>  It happened in my parents’ house!  At the dining room table!  We all just sat there, and Professor Burbage was hung upside down till she went unconscious.  She begged for mercy.  She begged Snape for mercy.  He’d been her friend.  But there was nothing he or anyone could do. And yes, I know now that Snape was only pretending to support the Dark Lord.  His hands were tied.”  He paused, taking a painful breath.  “Finally, Voldemort performed the killing curse after days of torturing her.  But that wasn’t the end of it.  Oh no.”</p><p>When next Draco looked up, Hermione could see tears coursing down his cheeks.  He seemed to be unaware of this.</p><p>“<i>He fed her to his snake</i>.  It makes me physically sick, just thinking about it.  And that was only one thing of many that I was forced to watch.  I don’t even want to tell you what else I saw, the horrific things they did to Muggles they captured.  I saw it all!  They made me watch and…” he shuddered.  “… <i>participate!</i>  All that shit is still in here!” He smacked his forehead hard.  “I don’t know how to stop it replaying in my head and in my dreams. Sometimes,” he said very softly, “I don’t even know quite how I function day to day.  Somehow, I go to class, I teach, and then I return to my rooms.  I mark essays.  I prepare lessons.  It’s the one thing that is truly real and solid in my life. There is nothing else for me.”</p><p>Hermione put down her wine glass and leaned forward, her eyes alight.  “That’s not true, Malfoy.  There’s your son.”</p><p>Draco sighed explosively, but his voice, when he did speak at last, was barely above a whisper.  “Ah, now there’s the rub, you see.  How can I be a good father?  I don’t know what joy is anymore.  Or love.  All I feel is hollow.  Hollow and sick.”  Leaning back, he pinched the area above his nose with two fingers and shut his eyes.  “Staying away from Scorpius is the one good thing I can do for him.  Now do you understand?”</p><p>It was far worse than she could have guessed.  He was actually ill and needed help, though not the sort of help she could give.  But would he be willing to do what needed to be done?</p><p>“Listen,” she told him firmly, reaching out to rest her hand on his, not even thinking about whether such a gesture would be welcomed.  “I’m not a healer, but it’s pretty obvious that you’ve been trying to deal with something on your own that nobody could handle without help.  You need to talk to someone who can really help you sort all of it, somebody properly trained.   Have you ever considered doing this?”</p><p>Draco seemed to stiffen slightly at her words.  Opening his eyes, he gazed steadily into the fire, saying nothing for a couple of moments.  Then he sighed again, still staring at the dancing flames.  “That’s not the way we do things in my family, Granger."  He seemed deeply weary, but there was a hard edge to his voice as well.  "Malfoys are supposed to be self-reliant. Dirty laundry doesn’t get aired in public. To anyone.  We must strive to rise above the bad in life, not let it control us.  It’s the pureblood way.”  He laughed bitterly.  “You’re fortunate, as a Muggleborn, that you aren’t hampered by such a code. The answer to your question is yes.  Of course I’ve considered it.  Many times.  And every time, it has seemed a sign of weakness, something to which I refuse to succumb.  And to be quite honest, reliving that nightmare is not... well..."  He shook his head slowly.  "I don't know if I can do it.  So it continues.  Somehow, I go on, but –”</p><p>“Nothing changes.  And you’re still without Scorpius,” Hermione said softly.  Suddenly, it was very important, crucial even, that this time be different, that Draco’s decisions be different.  The road to healing would be a long and very difficult one if he decided to embark on it.  But there was a tangible and genuinely good end waiting for him if he did.  His son would be there.</p><p>Her hand still rested on his.  Now she withdrew it, abruptly self-conscious, letting it fall to her lap.  Leaning in, she tried to catch his eye.  “Will you talk to someone at St. Mungo’s?  There’s actually a name in Muggle medicine for this.  It’s called PTSD.  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  None of this is your fault, Draco.”</p><p>Swivelling his head around, he looked at her sharply, and she could see that inadvertently, she’d made a misstep.  </p><p>“Or… well… I mean… look, as I said, I’m not a healer. All I know is, you need to find a way to forgive yourself.  But you don’t have to do it alone.  Will you try, at least?”  Hermione looked at him imploringly and then had a sudden idea.  She got to her feet.  “Come on.  I want to show you something.”</p><p>Beckoning for him to follow, she walked to the door of the children’s bedroom and opened it just enough that the three children could be seen. All three were on the floor, sleeping peacefully.  They’d pulled the mattresses off the beds and made a sort of fort with the bedclothes.  Scorpius was between Rose and Hugo, curled up and half buried beneath the quilts.</p><p>“Look at him, Draco.  He’s a really good kid,” she whispered.  “<i>He’s</i> what you stand to gain if you do this now.  He’s waiting for you.  He needs you. You’re the only father he has.”</p><p>Draco swallowed hard, looking for a long moment and then turning away.  “How do I know he’ll forgive me?  What if he doesn’t?”</p><p>Hermione had been heading back to the sitting room, but now she turned back to Draco, her smile gentle.  “You know the answer to that. He’s already forgiven you.  He as much as told you so at lunch.”</p><p>They were standing at the door now, and Hermione laid a hand lightly on his arm.</p><p>“Come to tea tomorrow.  Your mother will be here.  Or better yet, come just a bit earlier, say about one.  You can spend some time together, just the two of you, before she gets here.  And then join us for tea before they leave.  Will you?”</p><p>He nodded, his grey eyes cloudy with too many warring emotions to articulate. And then he left, without saying anything more.  Heaving a sigh, she leant back against the door, feeling suddenly weak at the knees and willing it to prop her up.  Was there actually reason to hope now?  For the sake of the little boy down the hall, she prayed that there was.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/>Sunday dawned bright and clear, another picture-perfect day.  Not surprisingly, the three children were up early, far too early for Hermione’s liking, but somehow, she managed to contain them until nine o’clock, when demands for breakfast began to be made.  She ignored them for a time, until their pitiful cries of “Mummy, we’re absolutely <i>starving!</i>” became too insistent to drown out merely by pulling the pillow over her head.<p>Chuckling to herself, she pulled on her dressing down and padded down the short hall to their door.  Knocking lightly, she opened the door an inch.  </p><p>“What was that you said?  Were you lot talking to me?” she teased.</p><p>The door was flung open then, and three children in pyjamas, hair tousled, stood there grinning.  Scorpius was right in the thick of it between her two, and he looked as if he were having a fine time.</p><p>“Did I hear something about starving?” she continued, with a smirk. </p><p>They nodded avidly.</p><p>“And… do you suppose that some nice calf’s foot jelly would save three starving children?”</p><p>“Yuck!” “No!” “Ew!”” came the answering cries.</p><p>Pulling a solemn face, she continued.  “Do you fancy some liver, then?  Broiled?  With lots of onions?”</p><p>Immediate gagging noises were the reply.</p><p>Still hiding a grin, Hermione sighed dramatically.  “Well, then… there’s only one other thing, I’m afraid.  Take it or leave it.”</p><p>She paused.  This was a game she, Rose, and Hugo had played many times.  They knew the routine, but it seemed Scorpius had fallen in with the spirit of it intuitively.</p><p>“What is it?” he piped up eagerly, eyes shining.</p><p>“Well, I just wondered… Would a stack of, shall we say… blueberry pancakes do?”</p><p>“With maple syrup!  And bacon!  And sausages!” Their delighted clamourings rose all around Hermione, making her laugh.</p><p>She nodded, reaching to draw all three children in for a hug.  “Of course!  But you lot will have to help.  No breakfast unless you’ve helped.  Go put your dressing gowns and slippers on, wash your hands, and meet me in the kitchen.  No dawdling!”</p><p>Five minutes later, her small army of assistants was assembled in the small kitchenette, awaiting instructions.  All the ingredients for the pancakes – flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, eggs, milk, butter, and a bowl of fresh blueberries – were sitting on the work surface.</p><p>“Mummy,” Rose began excitedly.  “Can we do it without magic this time?  You know, the way we do it at Gran and Grandpa’s?  It’ll be ever so much more fun that way!”</p><p>“It’ll take longer,” Hermione warned; nevertheless, she grinned and nodded her agreement.  “Right then.  Doing it the Muggle way this time.  Have you ever helped in the kitchen, Scorpius?”</p><p>The little boy shook his head.  “I'm not even allowed in the kitchen at the Manor,” he replied.  “I’ve sometimes sneaked down there, but the house-elves always make me leave.  I think they’re scared they’ll get into trouble with my mother or with Grandmere or Grandpere.”</p><p>“I see,” Hermione murmured and then she gave him a conspiratorial wink.  “Well here, helping is not only allowed.  It’s expected.  So whilst you’re here, you’ll be expected to do your assigned jobs, okay?”</p><p>Scorpius nodded enthusiastically.  “What shall I do first, Professor Granger?”</p><p>“Well, let’s see.  I think I’d like you to measure out the flour and milk we’ll need.”  Quickly, she waved her wand over a pair of large teacups and two teaspoons, Transfiguring them into measuring cups and spoons of different sizes.  Next to them sat a large ceramic bowl.  “Okay, Master Malfoy.  We’ll need one cup of milk, please, and one cup of flour.  When you’ve measured everything, you may pour the milk into the bowl.”</p><p>This was done.  Scorpius stepped back to allow Rose and Hugo a turn.  </p><p>In short order, the batter was assembled and fully blended with the blueberries, the cast-iron skillet was hot, butter bubbling across its surface, and Hermione began spooning batter into the pan.  </p><p>“Could we have a turn putting the pancake batter in?  Please, Mummy?” Hugo wheedled.</p><p>Hermione considered.  She’d done it often enough with her own children, and she knew they were aware of being very careful near the stove.  She was less certain about how Scorpius would handle himself.  But she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and simply make sure she was ready for any emergency.</p><p>As it turned out, she needn’t have worried at all. If anything, he was even more cautious than necessary in handling the batter and not getting too close to the burners as he ladled it into the pan.  Soon the pancakes were bubbling, crisp at the edges, the finished stack growing quickly.  Sausages and bacon were sizzling in another pan, filling the kitchen with an exquisite aroma.</p><p>“Normally, doing it the Muggle way, I would have kept these warm in the oven. But I think we’ll just cheat a bit and use magic this time, since you’re all starving and looking decidedly peaked!” Hermione teased, waving her wand over the fragrant stack of pancakes.</p><p>“<i>Focillo!</i>” she murmured and then grinned at the children.  “It’s a warming charm you’ll learn in your first year here.  But right now, it’s time to set the table.  Rosie, you’re in charge of that. Make sure the boys do their share getting forks, napkins, plates, and glasses on the table.  There’s pumpkin juice and milk in the fridge.  Oh, and the maple syrup! We mustn’t forget that!”</p><p>While the table was being set, Hermione assembled the very inviting pancakes, bacon, and sausages on large platters and brought them, with Rose’s help, to the table.  They had all just sat down when there was a knock on the door.</p><p>Glancing quickly at the clock on the mantel in surprise – it was only 10 o’clock – Hermione hurried to the door.</p><p>Draco stood there, looking distinctly uneasy and unsure, not at all a look she was used to associating with him.</p><p>“Am I too early?” he asked, stepping in.  “I just thought… well… more time with Scorpius would be better than less.”  Then he noticed the children sitting at the laden breakfast table.</p><p>“Sorry,” he and Hermione said in unison.  “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he added.  “I’ll just…”</p><p>“You’ll just sit down and join us,” Hermione said firmly, pulling out the remaining empty chair.  “Have you had breakfast yet?”</p><p>The children were watching intently as the conversation played itself out.   Scorpius in particular seemed mesmerised at the presence of his father and was all ears.</p><p>Draco nodded.  “Just toast and coffee.” He sniffed the air appreciatively.  “Nothing like whatever smells so incredibly good here.”</p><p>“It’s settled, then,” Hermione decided.  “There’s more than enough for everyone.”  And with that, she began serving the food.</p><p>For a time, everyone was too consumed simply with eating to do much talking. And then, unprompted, the three children began to tell Draco about their sleepover, or rather, two of the three did.  Scorpius hung back shyly, his large, dark eyes darting back and forth between Rose, Hugo, Hermione, and his father.</p><p>At last, Draco looked directly at his son.  “Tell me, Scorpius,” he said quietly.  “Did you have a good time with Rose and Hugo?  Have you enjoyed being here at Hogwarts?”</p><p>Scorpius nodded but stayed silent.</p><p>“What was your favourite bit?” Rose prompted.  “What did you like best?”</p><p>The young boy coloured, grinning.  “The moving staircases!” he said at last.  “That and… everything!”</p><p>Draco smiled, almost in spite of himself.  Those staircases had fascinated him as well, when he’d first come to Hogwarts so many years before.  Then he took a nervous breath.  “Would you like to come with me to my classroom after breakfast?  There are some things there that I would like to show you.”</p><p>Was the nod that Scorpius gave him a sign that he really wanted to spend some time with his father?  Or was it a show of the obedience to his elders that he had been taught so thoroughly?  Draco tried not to dwell on the second possibility.</p><p>“Can we come as well?” Rose asked eagerly, but Hermione laid a proprietary hand on her daughter’s arm.  </p><p>“I think they’ll want some time to visit on their own today, before Scorpius’s grandmother arrives.  Besides, I’ve lots for you and Hugo to do this morning.  Coffee, Draco?”  At his nod, she fetched a mug of hot, freshly brewed coffee from the kitchen and set it down before him, along with the cream pitcher and the sugar bowl.</p><p>Breakfast concluded shortly thereafter, with everyone happily sated.  Scorpius followed Rose and Hugo in bringing their plates and cutlery to the kitchen sink.  Draco watched, frankly amazed at the display of good manners his son had shown; not the least of this was his eagerness to help, when Draco knew without question that the child was not expected to lift a finger at home, much less actually do any sort of chore.  House-elves’ work. Beneath the dignity of the masters and mistresses of the house.</p><p>As contrary as such behaviour was to his own upbringing as well, there was something eminently hopeful about the observation.  Scorpius hadn’t yet been unalterably spoilt.  There was an inherent decency and a genuine niceness about him.  And most remarkable of all, he really seemed to want to be around his father – all of this, Draco knew, in the face of what was undoubtedly a steady diet of vitriol against him coming from his ex-wife.  Astoria had tried to poison their son against his father for years, and fool that he’d been, Draco had allowed it.  But somehow – miraculously – the efforts hadn’t taken root, at least not completely.  There was evidently still a chance for him to be a father to his son.  He would take that chance now.</p><p>Draco rose from his place at the table to emulate his son’s example and carry his dishes to the kitchen.  Hermione was there already, preparing to do the washing up, this time with the help of magic. She glanced up as Draco approached and smiled.  </p><p>“You have a wonderful son,” she said softly.  “I’m so glad you came early.  I think he’s glad, too.”</p><p>He couldn’t stop a small, gratified smile curling the edges of his mouth.  “Thanks for breakfast, Granger.  And for… well, for everything.  I believe we can make a decent start now.  You know,” he told her, frank amazement in his eyes now, “he really doesn’t seem to hold my long absence against me.  I don’t understand it.  I don’t see how it’s possible, especially with Astoria whispering like a viper in his ear all this time. Maybe my mother has been the counter influence, a force for… I don’t know what.  Fairness, perhaps?  But I am going to tell him the truth.  Not the truly graphic details, but the broader reality.  I hope he’ll understand.  And forgive,” he added, almost in a whisper.</p><p>“He will,” Hermione answered promptly and with a certainty that Draco found remarkably reassuring suddenly.  “You’ll see.”</p><p>“And I am going to get help,” he added.  “I can’t do this alone.”</p><p>Without thinking, Hermione reached out and took his hand, holding it warmly between her own.  “You won’t have to,” she said simply.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center"><p>
    <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/36691636@N04/50055127842/in/album-72157710997113207/">
      
    </a><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center"><p>Epilogue</p></div></div><br/><br/><br/><br/>Fifteen months later<br/>1 September 2017<br/>Friday evening<br/><br/><br/><br/>Summer had not yet gone, not officially – days were still lazy and hot, fanned by breezes fragrant with late-summer blooms – but it was the start of a new school term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.<p>The Hogwarts Express had arrived in Hogsmeade bang on time from Kings Cross Station in London, as it had done every year for decades.  Excited students spilled onto the platform, dragging trunks and familiars’ cages behind them. First Years, timid and a bit overwhelmed, looked about anxiously, while older, more seasoned students moved with authority towards the apparently horseless carriages that would transport them to the school.   Hagrid, the gamekeeper, was on hand as he had been every year for ages, to welcome the frightened little First Years and shepherd them to the boats for their crossing of the Black Lake, a rite of passage that every new student at Hogwarts experienced.</p><p>But the best part of this first day of term was the Welcoming Feast, a blowout of a meal that never failed to astonish and amaze every child with its sumptuousness and splendour, as did the Great Hall itself.  </p><p>This Welcoming Feast was special, however, and not just to the new students who gazed about them in awe.  It was special as well to two of the teaching staff: the Potions master, Professor Draco Malfoy, whose son Scorpius was starting this year, and the Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Hermione Granger, whose daughter Rose was also a First Year.  The two professors sat together at the staff table at the front of the vast room, watching their offspring talking and laughing together with the rest of the new students.</p><p>“Remember our first Welcoming Feast?” Hermione murmured.  “Twenty-six years ago.  Hard to believe, isn’t it?”</p><p>“How did you feel that first night?”  His eyes were still on the children even as he asked.</p><p>“Scared to death!” she replied, her own gaze still riveted on Scorpius and Rose.  “But I was determined not to let it show.  There was so much I still didn’t know. How to be a proper witch, for instance.  I didn’t have a clue, and I was so afraid it would be obvious and that I wouldn’t fit in.  That I’d be sent home.  I thought reading everything I could get my hands on would answer my questions.”  She laughed softly, almost to herself.  “I was so naïve!”</p><p>Draco chuckled, nodding.  “Whereas I was sure I already knew <i>everything</i> about being a wizard.  After all, my father was Lucius Malfoy and we had money and power and loads of prestige.  I could lord it over everyone and get away with it.  Nasty little toffee-nosed git, wasn’t I.”</p><p>“You were, rather,” Hermione agreed ruefully, but her smile was curiously tender.  “Sorry.”</p><p>“You didn’t have to agree quite so readily, you know!” he teased, feigning hurt feelings.  “All right, yes. You know what I was like better than anyone, I reckon.”  Taking her hand under the table, he said, just loud enough for only Hermione to hear, “And I’m truly sorry.  For every mean or cruel thing I ever said to you.”</p><p>“Oh, Draco! You’ve apologised for all that more times than I can count. It’s in the past. I forgave you ages ago.”  She gave his hand a quick squeeze and smiled reassuringly.</p><p>“Okay.  Just as long as you promise me one thing.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“That if I ever backslide into old habits or beliefs – if I ever begin to treat Scorpius the way my father treated me, growing up – you’ll give me a swift kick in the arse and remind me as forcefully as you possibly can that it isn’t what I want or who I am.”</p><p>Hermione grinned.  “Deal.”  She glanced over at the students’ tables and clutched a fistful of Draco’s robes anxiously.  “Oh, look!  The Sorting’s about to begin!”</p><p>This would be the highlight of the evening, the time in which every new student would find out which house he or she belonged in.  The Sorting Hat was as shabby and derelict looking as they both remembered it from their own first year.  But it was as keen a judge of character as ever, and  now it was ready to begin.</p><p>Professor McGonagall stood, a parchment scroll in hand, and cleared her throat with dramatic emphasis.   That sound, together with a steely glance ranging around the Great Hall, quieted the place down quite effectively.</p><p>Unrolling the parchment, its length considerable, she began.  “When I call your name, First Years, you will come to the front and seat yourself here, on this stool.  I will place the Sorting Hat on your head and it will announce your designated house.  Ahem…  Marcia Allenby…”</p><p>A terrified little girl approached the stool timidly and sat down on the very edge, looking as if she were on the verge of bolting in the opposite direction.</p><p>“Ravenclaw!” the Sorting Hat shouted almost immediately, at which Marcia Allenby ran to the Ravenclaw table, with a grin of enormous relief on her small face.</p><p>And so it went.  Armbruster, Astradile, Belleweather, Bingham, Bickerstaff, Clendenon, Crandall… The names and their owners continued in a never-ending parade of excited squeals and cheers as the hat barked out its decisions.  With each shout of “Slytherin!” “Gryffindor!” “Hufflepuff!” and “Ravenclaw!”, furious applause erupted.  Finally, Professor McGonagall reached the tail end of the Gs.</p><p>“Rose Granger-Weasley!” she trumpeted, scanning the Great Hall for a young girl she already knew well. </p><p>Hermione, her cheeks flushed pink and eyes bright with excitement, leaned forward slightly in her chair, reaching to clutch Draco’s hand under the table.</p><p>Entirely self-possessed, Rose stood and walked sedately to the front of the room.  Seating herself, she waited while the headmistress placed the Sorting Hat on her head.  Several seconds passed, during which time seemed to slow to an excruciating crawl.  Hermione leaned forward even more, straining to hear.</p><p>And then, “GRYFFINDOR!” the hat boomed at last.  Rose grinned happily, practically skipping to the Gryffindor table.  When she got there, though, a stricken expression suddenly crossed her face, and she turned to look back at Scorpius, who still awaited the decision of the Sorting Hat.  He smiled at her bravely and waved.  She returned his wave, looking uncertain for the first time.</p><p>“They won’t be together, I'm sure of it,” Hermione murmured.  </p><p>“I’m afraid you’re right.”  Draco glanced at his son, who looked composed but a tad nervous as he awaited his turn with the hat.  “No Malfoy has ever been Sorted into any house but Slytherin for more generations than I can count.”</p><p>“But will they still be able to be friends, do you think?  They’re so close.  It would be such a shame if that had to end.”  She frowned as she considered the realities of house loyalties, rivalries, and the clique-ish nature of school life.  She’d lived through it herself and knew how mean and hurtful kids could be, especially when they chose to band together with others for the wrong reasons.  </p><p>“Well, in the end, I think they will find a way, though I also believe their friendship will be tested.  But of course, they’ve got another thing going for them.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“Us.  You and me.  No matter what happens during the school year, they’ll still be with us for summers and holidays. Unless you’ve changed your mind…?”  Draco glanced quickly at Hermione, searching her face for a hint of doubt.</p><p>She smiled at him reassuringly.  “Don’t be silly.  Of course I haven’t.  Though it’s been really hard, keeping such a big secret!”</p><p>Draco chuckled.  “I’m pretty sure the kids have guessed by now.  Scorpius has been giving me some very fishy glances lately.”</p><p>Hermione joined him in quiet laughter and nodded.  Rosie and Hugo had been doing much the same thing, and it had been all she could do not to spill the beans.</p><p>“At the rate things are going,” Draco continued, “the whole school will know before too long.  Come to think of it, Granger, we're already the perfect model of inter-house unity, are we not?  If we can get along…” He leaned in as if to whisper in her ear, instead lightly brushing her cheek with a glancing, barely perceptible kiss.  “Then anyone can.”</p><p>Now Hermione was blushing furiously.  Somebody let out a wolf whistle and the Great Hall erupted in loud cheers and applause.  Apparently, the spectacle of two of their professors sharing the briefest of intimacies was far more interesting in that moment than anything the Sorting Hat might say.</p><p>“Cat’s out of the bag now, I reckon,” Draco drawled, grinning.  Then he leaned back in his chair and casually draped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders.</p><p>“Malfoy! You’re impossible!” Hermione laughed, embarrassed but pleased too.  The cat was indeed out of the bag, at least in the broadest sense.  Even Professor McGonagall was smiling as she attempted to restore order.</p><p>“Ahem!” she barked, clapping her hands twice.  After a moment, the Great Hall quieted down.  “To continue.  Albert Heflin!”</p><p>And so it went, until finally, the Ms were at hand.  “Scorpius Malfoy!”</p><p>Scorpius stood, looked around the vast room with its starry, night-sky ceiling, and then sought his father’s eye.  Draco winked and nodded, the barest hint of a smile playing about his mouth.  ‘Go on, then.  You can do this.  I’m here,’ his expression said.</p><p>The boy walked boldly up to the Sorting Hat and sat down.  </p><p>Silence.</p><p>Then the Sorting Hat began to speak.  “Hmm,” it mused.  “Interesting.  There are many admirable qualities here to consider.  Kind, thoughtful, and diligent.  Brave, too.  You’d do well in Gryffindor.  And you’ve a good mind.  Ravenclaw could be a very good fit.  Yet…” the Sorting Hat paused.  “Yet, I see drive and ambition as well.  A genuine desire to succeed.  Better be… Slytherin!”</p><p>Amidst a roar of raucous cheers from the Slytherin table, Scorpius grinned and took his place there.  But even as he was being welcomed by his new housemates, his eyes found Rose’s, and in that moment, the same ambivalence she’d felt found its way to him as well.</p><p>“Don’t worry, Granger,” Draco told her, seeing her frown once again.  “They’ll figure it out.  We did.”</p><p>Hermione let out a tiny snort.  “It only took us eighteen years!”  <i>And a lot of bad blood!</i></p><p>“Better late than never.” Draco shrugged.  “Consider: who would have imagined we’d be together?  In what universe would that scenario ever have been even remotely credible?  And yet, here we are.  And really, it’s all your doing, you know.  You and your nosy, do-gooder instincts.  If not for you, none of the rest of this would have been possible: my recovery –” </p><p>“Which I'm very proud of, you know!” Hermione interrupted, smiling encouragingly.</p><p>Draco returned her smile.  “I do know. Thank you.  I’ve a lot more work to do, but at least I know there’s an end in sight.  Then there’s my relationship with my son, growing very slowly but surely.  I’d never have had that if not for you ignoring me and sticking that pretty nose where it didn’t belong.  And then… us.”</p><p>“Us,’” Hermione echoed, and suddenly, her eyes were just a tad too bright.  </p><p>While they’d been talking, the rest of the Sorting had continued, concluding at last.  Now the headmistress smiled benevolently at the entire student body and waved her wand.  A vast array of delicious foods suddenly appeared on the tables on huge platters, and no student needed telling twice to tuck in and enjoy. As a result, nobody was paying them the slightest attention at all anymore. This suited Draco just fine.</p><p>“Us, Professor Granger.  You…” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tip of one finger.  “And…” He kissed a second finger.  “Me.  Together.  Forever, I hope.”  His lips found their way to her palm, where they pressed a tender kiss.</p><p>“Just try to get rid of me!” Hermione laughed, the tears still leaking from her eyes.  “I love you, Professor Malfoy.”</p><p>He smiled at her, and in that smile, the many years of loneliness and estrangement from the world and from his son, and a future that had been unalterably bleak, were vanquished once and for all.  “I love you too, Professor Granger.”  Later, when they were alone, he would show her just how much.</p><p>Meanwhile, at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, two First Years quietly took note, even as everyone around them was still busy stuffing themselves.  Later, after the feast, they would congratulate themselves on a job well done.  </p><p>And indeed it was.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>FIN</p>
</div><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>Author's Note: Major thanks, for starters, to my fabulous beta and very good friend, mister_otter!  This story is the product of a challenge we set ourselves, just for the sheer fun of it. The idea was for both of us to adhere, however we chose, to this prompt: "Professor Draco Malfoy."  We could take our stories in whatever direction we chose.   (Preview: Hers, still in progress, will be quite different to mine, but as her beta, I can say it's going to be amazing!)  I loved the challenge and I so appreciate the incredibly helpful and supportive feedback she has given me consistently for years.  We make a great team! :-)<br/><p>The newly posted "missing scenes" sequel to "Behind Grey Eyes" is called "Fifteen Months," and it covers the 15-month period of time between Chapter 8 and the epilogue of "BGE."  </p><p><br/><br/>The title of the fic comes from The Who's great song, "Behind Blue Eyes."  I have wanted to write a fic inspired by the lyrics for ages.  For me, they tell a deeply troubled story that so reflects what I imagine Draco Malfoy to have experienced, growing up as he did.<br/><br/><br/><br/>Behind Blue Eyes<br/><br/><br/>No one knows what it's like<br/>To be the bad man,<br/>To be the sad man<br/>Behind blue eyes.<br/><br/>No one knows what it's like<br/>To be hated,<br/>To be fated<br/>To telling only lies.<br/><br/>But my dreams<br/>They aren't as empty<br/>As my conscience seems to be.<br/>I have hours, only lonely.<br/>My love is vengeance<br/>That's never free.<br/><br/>No one knows what it's like<br/>To feel these feelings<br/>Like I do<br/>And I blame you.<br/>No one bites back as hard<br/>On their anger.<br/>None of my pain and woe<br/>Can show through.<br/><br/>But my dreams<br/>They aren't as empty<br/>As my conscience seems to be.<br/>I have hours, only lonely.<br/>My love is vengeance<br/>That's never free.<br/><br/>When my fist clenches, crack it open<br/>Before I use it and lose my cool.<br/>When I smile, tell me some bad news,<br/>Before I laugh and act like a fool.<br/>And if I swallow anything evil,<br/>put your finger down my throat.<br/>If I shiver, please give me a blanket.<br/>Keep me warm, let me wear your coat.<br/><br/>No one knows what it’s like<br/>To be the bad man,<br/>To be the sad man<br/>Behind blue eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>